


The Wind Follows

by HopelesslyLost



Series: Thanks, It's the Trauma [2]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Iron Man (Comics), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), Marvel Noir, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018), The Defenders (Comic)
Genre: All Peter Parkers are Jewish, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dehumanizing Language, Depersonalization, Gen, Homeless Peter Parker, Killgrave dies the same chapter, Marvel 1930s, Non-Consensual Touching, Oh I failed at keeping the kkk nameless, Peter Parker is 17, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter Parker is young, Self-harming, Smoking, The Curse of Power, The Spider-God is a Dick, They’re so dumb., Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, additional warnings will be given in chapter 7, and a bit of a challenge, and her origin, but it will end happily, but there are some serious self-harming tendencies here, but they’re all going to die so it’s whatever lol, canonical teenager spider-noir, cosmic horror, did you all know that JJJ in the Noir comics is pretty awesome?, each chapter will have explicit warnings, i didn't want this, i don't know how to change it fully though, i don't know if i'd call it extremely explicit, i don't know what all to warn about, i had forgotten Jessica Jones' past, i have to use him now, i think he's great, i think it might be kind of funny, i'm debating on whether or not to keep the KKK characters nameless, it's both painful and brutal, noncon is heavily referenced in chapter seven, noncon is offscreen, nothing is described, spying on the KKK, there is a lot of nonconsensual touching in chapter 7, this is a Marvel Noir, this is not a very happy story, who wants to give the kkk the light of day, will likely be some form of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-11-02 05:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 99,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20633384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopelesslyLost/pseuds/HopelesslyLost
Summary: Pete couldn't remember the last time getting a crowbar to the face felt like a relief, but the only thing he could think before his vision whited out was the fact that the jig was up. He would never have to do this again.Now he'd just have to get out of this alive.(can be read without reading Burning Matches, be patient with it)





	1. Welcome to the Shitshow

**Author's Note:**

> HELLOOOOOOOO!!! To those of you that are uncertain this is a direct Spin-Off to the fic Burning Matches. To those of you that are unaware, this is heavily based in the Noir universe and will delve very deeply into the universe that I have created based on the Marvel Noir books. I say 'based on' because I'm going to be completely honest, I am basically taking all of the canon and burning it in a fucking fire. Spider-Man Noir canon is disregarded after...Eyes without a Face, and in fact a good bit of the way that everything was established has also been tossed out the window. Luke Cage Noir has been utterly destroyed. Like, consider the entire thing obliterated, we aren't bothering with it at all. If you know anything about it, ignore it, it has no power here. Daredevil Noir will actually be similar to the comics, as well Iron Man Noir, but that's it. So I guess two out of four, at least half right.
> 
> On further thought I believe that you can read this without reading Burning Matches, have some patience with it~ I can't write all this without explaining more about how it is in the Marvel Noir universe. 
> 
> This fic will obviously feature the KKK quite heavily, though we are actually going to be fucking them up, which is exciiiiiiting~~ 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for: use of the word 'negro', which has naturally gone out of fashion but was quite in-fashion in the 1930s, if this is a major squick I will absolutely change it, just ask~ I don't have to be completely historically accurate, like for fuck's sake. The comic utilized it so I went with it, but like I said, I threw the rest in the fire so that can join, too. 
> 
> The KKK burn 3 chapels and 3 synagogues. 
> 
> Human trafficking is mentioned but not completed, the peeps are saved. 
> 
> References: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DFZUzdHUVjk - this delves into public bathhouses which were a thing in New York for a long while before they were shut down because of the AIDs epidemic.  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWF3IDk9Gek - this is really quite a fascinating look at a lot of older New York landmarks, including sewers and subways. There's a lot of stuff that will take inspiration from some of this eventually.

Peter Benjamin Parker was dead.

He had been dead for over a year, but he had yet to stop moving. That was the way that Peter had been thinking of it ever since he had been _changed_, a truth that beat deep in his soul.

Peter Benjamin Parker was dead.

Peter had tried to deny it when he was first changed, had tried to cling to his old life with everything in him. He’d continued taking photos for Mr. Jameson, trying to save money to go to college in that pipedream that was the future, and helping his Aunt in the breadline they ran. Then…Ellis happened, then his best friend was left in a state worse than death, and in the horror that followed…

Someone changed.

Peter had seen with his own eyes that awful twisting of flesh and the carnage that started afterwards. Peter had thrown himself against it without hesitation, utilizing his speed, his strength, and his webbing to try and take down the beast that had once been a woman, desperate and running. He had seen her change, seen her body sprout scales, seen the teeth that were long and hooked in a way that the Lizard’s had not been, her body more crocodilian than anything lizard…

And she would have ripped the others to pieces if Peter had not acted. Peter had met her in violence, met her in ferocity, and the others were able to escape, running as fast as they could, screaming. Peter had ended the fight with his arm hanging limp, bloody tears through his torso, a broken nose, and a deep and abiding horror deep in his soul.

Someone had been screaming her name, someone had known her, someone had _loved_ her.

In that one moment the entirety of what he was becoming, of what he would _be_ slammed into him with all the force of a gunshot.

For she had grabbed that man before he had been able to act and thrown him into a wall. Peter had heard the snap of his spine, heard the breath leave him to never enter again, and had known he was dead before he hit the ground. Too slow. He was too slow.

He was still. Too. Slow.

Peter hadn’t gone home that night and he hadn’t been back since. Peter had found Robbie, though, had found what remained of his best friend, and mourned until he was numb. He’d mourned his uncle, his friend, his aunt, the friends he had had, the people he couldn’t save! That woman, the man that had been close to her, the woman that he had found that that _monster_ had destroyed. That beast that wore human skin and called himself Octavius. That called himself a _savior of man_.

Peter had never hated someone more, outside of the Vulture. Not even the Goblin had gained as much hatred. Not for all of his rot, for all of his decay. The Goblin at least understood what he was and what he was doing. Octavius had seen himself as god, and Peter knew that the only gods that had any control anymore were the ones that thought nothing of them.

Peter’s had forsaken him long ago.

In the end, despite everything, Peter was still numb. There was nothing left in him.

Or he had _thought_ there was nothing left…

Then he had met the Spiders.

Finding them had been like finding _home_, all of them injecting into his heart a bit of life that he had thought he had lost. It had been painful, and confusing, and _wonderful_. Peter had been treated like…like a _human_ again. Even with the people that called on him to help, the ones that left the notes in his web, they always treated him with an air of fear, as though waiting for him to turn.

Peter was the one they went to when they were desperate. Peter was the one to go to when there was no hope. Though with Ellis, and the stories being told of what he had done, that had started to change.

But Peter knew they would never stop seeing him as a monster.

Yet _them_? The Spiders had accepted him with open arms, even…even after they knew everything. They knew _everything_. They had looked _it_ in the face and resisted its sway. They had _held_ him, almost trying to shield him from the thing that had his soul. And then there was Rio and Mr. Davis. A nurse and a copper, an interracial couple open in a way that Peter had never expected but found himself clinging to. There were so many things that Peter was seeing that he wanted. And they gave it all with such abandon… Food, a place to sleep…affection.

They called him ‘Pete’ as though he was someone they loved, someone they cared about. As though he was _worthy_ of that love, as though he wasn’t cursed, as though he wasn’t a danger.

Peter didn’t recognize the thing that swelled in his chest at the thought, didn’t understand why it burned as bright as it did, why it sunk so deep and he couldn’t shake it away. Peter only knew that he wanted to be worthy of that. He wanted so badly to be the person that they thought he was. He wanted so badly to be that hero, to be the person that they saw.

Peter wanted so badly to be a _person_ again.

Peter was dead.

But Pete…Pete lived on in the hearts and the thoughts of seven people that thought the _world_ of him.

The portal that suddenly opened up in front of him startled him for a moment, but then Peni was there, Peni with her wide smile and her bright eyes, throwing the goober into his lap. Pete took it with a tip of his hat, immediately clipping it to his wrist as soon as her portal closed, removing the paper from the back of it with the same motion. He ran his fingers over the sleek metal, taking in the craftsmanship and noting the new features. He looked at the paper then and that warmth came back, that thing in his chest swelling up so much he thought he might choke on it.

Peni and her SP//dr were drawn there, both of them holding what she had explained were peace signs, the both of them colored in a beautiful display of markers, the colors so bold, so cheerful. Something was written in Japanese in a little heart-shaped bubble over the drawn Peni’s head, and he smoothed his fingers over the drawing in something bordering reverence. He carefully turned it over to read the back where the instructions were, sending little glances at the picture every so often.

When he finally thought he had it figured, he carefully ran through the instructions, following them all to understand all of the functions and committing them to memory before closing up the paper and carefully putting it in his breast pocket. Pete finally closed his eyes and readjusted himself in his hammock, feeling the way the wind drifted him, before finally falling asleep.

He had a lot of work to do in order to catch up on what he had missed, and Pete was still very tired.

* * *

Pete hated the sewer.

It was the one place where he never wanted to go, and the one place where everything seemed to force him to go. He’d met with Jameson as soon as he’d gotten the opportunity, meeting the man in his office after the curfew, pressed into the far corner. He’d always kept his distance, for Jameson’s comfort as well as his own. That feeling of being a ticking timebomb was never as strong than when he had to deal with other people.

Jameson had updated him on the recent happenings with his usual brusque flair, pacing up and down the length of his office. It was one of the few times that Pete had actually chosen to meet with him in person, but after the few days he had had he needed a bit of familiarity. Jameson had no idea who he was, nor who he had been. The Nazi that had slit his throat had done more for him than the bastard would ever know.

“I can’t _stand_ it,” Jameson said, chomping down on his cigar, finally pausing in his movements to lean against the window. “Nazi bastards aren’t enough, now we’ve got rumors that those Klan chucklefucks are about to come knocking on our doors. As though we ain’t got enough problems! Harlem’s in a tizzy, Cage’s doing his best, but people are starting to get desperate and…well, you of all people would know what happens when people get desperate.” Jameson gave him a glance, and Pete gave a brief nod of his head. Jameson sighed. “Thing about it is, we don’t even know if they’re really coming up or if it’s just hearsay.”

“It _better_ be hearsay,” Pete said, Jameson giving a snort and a nod.

“Preaching to the converted,” Jameson spread his hands out and gave him a bow of his head. “Though if it’s not we’ll have to get to it as it comes. For now…I’ve heard tell that there’s a rather unsavory practice that is currently occurring, and it’s happening in your favorite spot.” Pete let out a sigh that might have been a groan for as much as he expressed distaste, Jameson’s laughter echoing. “Yeah, well, here,” Jameson said, tossing something his way. Pete caught the lump that smelled like lemon and parsley, and snorted. “Soap for when it’s all over,” Jameson said with a grin that emphasized his mustache. “You can even clean your clothes with it.” 

“Thanks,” Pete responded, tipping his hat to him and putting the lump of soap in a pocket.

“Coppers aren’t being much help,” Jameson said. “Say they won’t act on hearsay, but I tell you, Spider, I’m just about sick of those fribbles. Think that they can get in anywhere with a buzzer, but they won’t go where they’re needed. Bust down Hoovervilles and kick out people living in the slums but won’t take care of the ones that need help or go where it might be _inconvenient_.” Jameson gave a quiet curse under his breath. “You masks might want to start keeping better tabs on each other, or at least filling me in on how to reach them when the only people I’ve got are those coppers.”

Pete shook his head, before giving a slight shrug. “I’m no one’s keeper, and no one else is mine,” he said.

Jameson gave a snort. “No kidding,” he said, taking a drag of his cigar. “Either way, you might need backup. From what I’m hearing it’s bad, and the thing they’re smuggling…well, I’d say pack more heat than usual. You might need it.” Jameson said, frowning up at him. “This one’s big, if what I’ve been hearing is true.”

“What’s the cargo?” Pete asked.

“People,” Jameson stated simply, blowing a ring of smoke. “Undesirable people,” Jameson snorted, his eyes dark.

Pete tilted his head in question, and Jameson sighed.

“I couldn’t understand him, I don’t know where he was from, but he didn’t speak much English.” Jameson answered, he frowned. “But once again, Spider, I don’t know for certain. This might be a wild goose chase, my source was…rather beat up when he was found, and his English was pretty broken, but I think it’s important that it’s looked into. He rose enough hell that one of the moles decided it was worth looking into. Told a few cops, tried to get hold of some masks…” Jameson laughed. “They act like they’ve got better things to do than climb into some sewers.”

Pete gave a quiet agreement before starting to open the vent he was by.

“Oh, wait, Spider,” Jameson called, and Pete turned, tilting his head in question. Jameson sighed, and walked over to him, beckoning him down with a tilt of his head. After a moment, Pete allowed himself to drop down before Jameson. The man would probably be taller than him without his boots, but as it was, they were pretty even, and Pete knew for a fact that he made Jameson uncomfortable, and so bowed his head. Jameson took a breath, before holding his hand out. Pete blinked, before taking it, and the two of them shook. “I’m glad you’re still alive.” Jameson said. “I was…well, I was more afraid than I thought I would be. Take care of yourself, Spider. You go places most can’t, and I don’t want to be the one to tell everyone you’ve finally been filled full of daylight.”

“I’ll do my best,” Pete agreed with a nod of his head, and climbed back up the wall.

This, naturally, led to the point where Pete entered the sewers empty handed. While Jameson talked about packing heat, the truth of it was a sewer was a dangerous place to fire a weapon. The last thing he wanted was to cause some kind of explosion in a place where there was no real way out. His bare hands and his webbing would do him well enough.

The coppers weren’t entirely in the wrong for not wanting to go into a sewer, Pete thought to himself with disgust, carefully crawling his way along the ceiling, trying to avoid the drops that would fall. He knew there was no real hope for it, he’d just have to hope that soap was good. He also knew that a copper would have never entered a potential hostage situation without packing heat. Even if the other guys wouldn’t be able to either.

Pete crawled until he thought his fingers would work their way through his gloves, until he was damp, and smelled, and no longer flinched when something bubbled to the surface below him. While asking for specifics would potentially help him, Pete was limited in who he could be around, and who wouldn’t just start screaming at the sight of him. Stories were told, but if you couldn’t speak English then they weren’t really all that helpful. There was the fact, too, that there were limited places where you could hide large objects, and Pete knew all of them, complete with a hierarchy of which were the most likely to be used.

_Why_ did they always go for the _sewers_?

Pete did his best to not think of the fact that he was able to see in the dark just fine. Did his best to not consider the way that everything was revealed to him in pristine clarity without the aid of a flashlight. It would just increase the turning in his stomach, and that wasn’t something he could deal with just now.

Eventually, Pete got lucky.

A light down the end of one of the tunnels attracted his attention, and Pete crawled his way towards it carefully, doing his best to stay to the shadows and move slow.

What he eventually came upon made him bare his teeth, that burning in his chest hot and fiery.

Cages.

They had stuck women and children in cages, a few men, but mostly _women_ and _children_. The burning boiled in him, because Pete knew exactly what he had wandered into, and Pete pressed himself to the lip of the archway, looking out to see if there were any guards. After finally spotting ten of them, the men huddled together quietly and talking in hushed voices, Pete knew he had gotten lucky.

In echoing voices that bounced and twisted, making it hard to understand, they were talking about moving shipment tonight.

Pete crawled his way along the ceiling towards them, keeping himself low, when he realized something with horror.

The idiots had brought _guns_.

It seemed like they were smart enough to know that smoking was a bad idea, none of them had lit up, but they were carrying tommy guns and other pieces that Pete knew would cause one _hell_ of an explosion if they were fired.

Well. Seemed his job had just got a hell of a lot more complicated. Take out the guns, then take out the finks. Pete would have to hope his presence wouldn’t alert the captives and he could get close enough to take them quickly.

Pete made his way carefully, crawling along, a black slip among black, carefully avoiding their flashlight beams that cut through the shadows with piercing white light, which were mostly angled at each other, a few scattered along the platform that the sewer crews would use to check gas levels, pressure, and other things, a few gauges near the cages for that exact purpose. When Pete was finally just overtop of them, he paused, waiting, and then moved without warning, firing shot after shot of webbing regardless of the sharp stings of pain from his spinnerets, tearing away guns, webbing hands to stop them from moving, covering faces, and finally he fell down amongst them. Pete fought the ones that tried to fight back, sending them to their knees and finally, the only sound came from the cages, where they had started crying and screaming.

Pete carefully walked to them, finding the women holding the children close, the few men standing as close to the bars as they dared, trying to draw attention. Pete picked up a flashlight, rolling it towards the bars so they could grab it. When they finally pointed it at him, he waited for them to recognize him, if he was lucky. If he was lucky, they’d know what seeing him meant…

For what felt like the first time in his life, for the third time in a row, Pete was _lucky_. As soon as that white light hit his form and illuminated him properly, casting his black shadow out behind him and instinctively making him tip his hat, he saw them visibly relax.

The women started weeping in relief, their words dancing together, very few of them words he could understand, their hands reaching out to him through the bars. He walked forward and began carefully breaking the locks that held them, letting them out in waves. When they had finally all left the cages, Pete grabbed and dragged the guards over, throwing them in the cages he had just emptied and webbing them shut. He would have to come back later and interrogate them, but he would leave them a couple nights to get acquainted with the idea that they were locked in the sewers. He made sure they had no matches or other things that they could use to cause an explosion, and began handing out the flashlights to the ones he’d saved.

He’d see how their captors liked being locked in the dark.

Maintenance only came down on Fridays and today was a Tuesday. He had plenty of time to let them reflect.

Pete looked to the ones he had saved and after a moment of hesitation decided that he’d fed well enough recently, he might as well use it. Pete created a platform for them out of his webbing, shoving it out into the sludge to make sure it would float, holding it steady. After careful maneuvering and directing, mainly through gesture, Pete tried to get some of the women and children to move on, but they all refused

For a moment Pete was stymied, wondering why they were looking at him with fear in their eyes, all of them huddling together.

The wind blew its way through the sewer behind him, bringing with it a smell of rain that for just a moment expunged the smell of sewage, and then he knew.

Pete carefully untucked the bottom of his mask, watching as all of them started stiffening, their eyes widening, fear in their expressions. There were no attempts to fight back, no attempts to stop them, the whole of them simply huddling tighter together, clinging. They had realized that fighting against Pete wouldn’t be feasible, had realized that there was nothing that they could do if Pete decided to eat them now and not later, after he’d dragged them where he wanted… Pete finally pulled his mask up over his scarred mouth, and bared his teeth.

They stared at the human-teeth with wide-eyed looks of horror, that soon turned to relief. The message was clear: I couldn’t eat you even if I wanted to.

That established, Pete was able to get some of the women and children to climb on, all of them sitting in order to steady themselves. He moved the makeshift raft a little farther out, creating another before helping more to sit, and then finally one last one. This one he placed the men on, making sure that the lip of the webbing was just high enough they shouldn’t be covered in sludge. Pete didn’t want them walking in the sewage without protection, _he_ didn’t want to be walking in the sewage without protection.

Pete hopped to the ceiling after connecting the three rafts together, and webbed the frontmost one to his vest and began his long crawl to the access shafts, closing the tunnel behind him as he went with more webbing. No use having their crew come save them before he wanted it. It was more difficult than he thought it would be to tug them along. Their weight constantly pulled back on him, and while he usually wouldn’t be feeling it, and could lift much more than the ones behind him, his excessive webbing use had become taxing.

Worse, Pete wasn’t about to stick _that_ webbing into his mouth to recycle it. It was an expenditure that he couldn’t replace easily, and he was beginning to regret it.

Finally, he made his way to the access shaft, shoving the manhole cover out of the way with a terrible grinding shriek, allowing moonlight to pool down onto the just released victims. They began cheering, singing, and Pete carefully guided them over to the ladder so they could climb out on their own. Pete hoisted out the ones that needed it, the men handing children up to him, which he easily placed on their feet outside of the sewer, women taking them in their arms and hushing them. Pete finally watched as the men climbed up, carefully watching to make sure none of them would fall.

Eventually, the whole of them were safe, and Pete released his webbing, watching it float away with regret, before climbing up himself. All the while, the cheering and singing continued, and eventually it brought the attention that he had hoped it would. The church near the sewer line opened its doors, one of the priests taking a few steps out in curiosity, before Pete could see recognition spread in the way the figure took a step back in surprise, before running forward, calling out.

Pete stayed just long enough to see the ones he had rescued turn to greet the running priest, a few of his cohorts running from the church building as well. They’d see that they got help, Pete couldn’t be responsible for them anymore, and with that thought he turned on his heel and ran in the opposite direction, leaping up onto the nearest building and running back towards the entrance he had originally used.

Pete’s work, at least for now, was done. He’d utilized that church before, knew that they had a handle on what to do about the kinds of people that Pete dragged to them. The synagogues weren’t located in the safer parts of town, and the last thing that Pete wanted to do was drag them back into more danger. It was enough from him, and he knew that the priests would balk at the sight of him. The last thing he wanted to do was make it so they wouldn’t take the people he had just saved.

There was the sound of sirens in the distance, but after a moment of thought, Pete turned his back. Those were for fire, and there wasn’t much Pete could do to help with that. The last time he had made an attempt the person he had been trying to save ran deeper into the fire to get away from him.

There was nothing he could do, so Pete left it alone.

Pete ran out into the blacks and whites and grays that made up his city, all long shadows and harsh contrasts, the moon a fat disc whose light was stark, and judged all underneath it. There were none of the warm lights that had been in Miles’ world, none of the advertisements to brighten the night and fight against the harsh glow. Pete basked in the familiarity, just as he bemoaned the loss. It wouldn’t matter in the end. They had chosen him, and Pete would keep with his promises.

Pete ran and jumped across the buildings, refusing to utilize more webbing for fear that it would wipe him out faster, and there was something that he still had yet to grab.

When he finally made his way to the entrance tunnel he had used, Pete collected the webbing that contained his coat with shaky fingers. Pete was exhausted, the strain getting here had put on his body immense, but he wasn’t willing to find a quiet corner where he could sleep just yet, not when he smelled the way he did. He had chosen this entrance in particular due to the proximity to the bathhouse close to Hell’s Kitchen. While usually he would avoid Hell’s Kitchen more than this, Pete was very much after that bathhouse, which closed earlier than most, and wouldn’t be frequented at this hour.

Besides, it was just far enough away from Hell’s Kitchen that it wasn’t Daredevil’s territory, and that was good enough for him.

Pete was too exhausted to want more.

The bathhouse in this part of the city was a rundown thing, even after only being opened about five years before. Things got old quickly here. Things wore down, but Pete didn’t care. He climbed his way up the face of the building, carefully avoiding the places that crumbled, entering in through the windows at the top which were used to let steam escape. It gave him a chance to enter completely undetected, and better yet, the ability to make sure there truly was no one else within. Pete crawled along the ceiling, before pausing above the communal bath in the center, his eyes closed, spidersense reaching, his senses on high alert.

Nothing.

Pete dropped to his feet next to the bath, exiting the room and making his way to the rainbaths. Peter had called it a ‘shower,’ when Pete had used it, which had initially confused him, but it had worked the same. After a moment of hesitation, Pete moved to the one in the farthest corner. He could use the walls for a quick getaway, and that was definitely needed provided he was wrong about others wanting to use it. He dropped his webbing ball to the ground, and began stripping off his gloves, throwing them to the ground, before taking off his vest, allowing it to fall to the ground with a plop that made him shudder.

Pete began pulling off the shirt he was wearing, when he heard it.

Footsteps. It took him a longer moment than he wanted to admit to realize that they were in the room with him, but Pete pulled the vest back on immediately - hiding his shape, before he leapt back and into that corner of the wall, giving him not only the high-ground, but the ability to see who was coming.

Daredevil and, to Pete’s surprise, Luke Cage. Daredevil was wearing his usual costume, the devil-mask staring at him with sightless eyes, while Luke Cage was dressed in what Pete figured he had been wearing earlier that day. Luke Cage wasn’t a mask in the traditional sense, and while he was known widely in Harlem for what he did, outside of it there wasn’t as much talk. It was the strangest blend of anonymity and notoriety that Pete had ever come across. To know a man who could enter a room with his suspenders and bowtie and be immediately regarded as someone to pay attention to was a mean feat.

Luke Cage and Daredevil both froze at the sight of him, Daredevil’s hands going for his clubs, and Pete held still, the three of them staring at each other for the longest time.

“Do you think it still knows us?” Luke Cage asked, looking to Daredevil out of the corner of his eye.

“You can address ‘it,’ if you want,” Pete said, dropping to his feet, watching the both of them as they squared their bodies towards him. “It might respond a bit better if you do.”

“Fair enough, Spider,” Daredevil said, walking forward. “Apologies, but you can’t be too careful. I’m…sure you understand.”

Pete found himself inclining his head, but made no other move towards or away from them.

“Were you in the sewers, Spider?” Cage asked, making a face as he took a few steps forward and then halted at the smell that reached him.

“Human trafficking,” Pete said in explanation, causing both Cage and Daredevil to stiffen. “They’re out, I left the ones who caught them in their own cages. Was thinking about letting them out Friday.”

Cage gave a hollow laugh. “Sounds like a plan, Spider. I’d ask to be invited, but I don’t do sewers.”

“No one should do sewers,” Pete agreed hollowly

“That at least explains why it didn’t help,” Daredevil said quietly.

“Help what?” Pete asked, a prickling sense of foreboding working it’s way up his spine.

“The Klan showed it’s hand tonight,” Cage said, his expression dark. “They burned crosses at the Church of St. Mary, the Abyssinian Baptist Church, and St Patrick. There were also a few burnings of some Jewish synagogues, the Congregation Shearith Israel, Old Broadway, and the Magen David. They haven’t gotten to Harlem yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

The sirens… That must have been what they were about…that…

“I had no idea,” Pete whispered. “I was…it took a long time, I couldn’t find…”

“Easy, Spider,” Cage said, holding his hands up. “You were otherwise occupied, I understand. There wasn’t much you could have done anyway, they lit them up within seconds of each other. There wasn’t much _we_ could have done.” The anger in his face at that statement was plain to see. It explained why neither of them smelled of smoke. It explained why there was no real sign of wear and tear on them. “It was timed, it was orchestrated, and we need to make sure that they can’t pull off something like that ever again.”

Pete was quiet for a moment, fatigue making his thoughts slow, but he finally nodded. “Okay, but…how are we going to do that?”

“I have it under good authority,” Cage started, taking a few steps forward, “that under all that getup, you are actually about as white as a ghost…” he looked down at his revealed hands, which Pete balled into fists. “And from what I’m seeing, they were right.” Cage frowned at him. “Now, I’m not sure whether you’re white through to the bone, passing, or just an albino negro, the point remains that you out of all of us, have more of a possibility of getting in there than us put together.”

“You want me to act as a spy,” Pete said, standing straighter, a dangerous prickling starting at the back of his neck. “A _Cursed_, you want me to be a _spy_?” he re-emphasized, that burning in his chest falling into his stomach, making him queasy.

“They don’t know what that is,” Daredevil said, waving away his concern. “They’ve got an idea, sure, but they keep themselves so affluent, and so stable that the only thing they’re likely to be desperate about is _choosing_ what to eat for dinner.”

“They don’t know about the wind and given their beliefs wouldn’t buy it if they did,” Cage spat. “You…well, all you’d need to do is turn on the charm as a native to New York… They’re looking for recruits, they’re not even being subtle about it, there’s a recruiter that’s making the rounds. All you gotta do is make a scene. I’m sure you can do that, can’t you? Do it around the right people and they’ll probably drag you right into their inner sanctum.”

“You get there and you figure out who and where they’re targeting next, and pass on the information, figure out who the members are so we’ll put a stop to it,” Daredevil said, spreading his hands. “What do you say, Spider? I’m sure that you’re interested.”

“Why not you?” Pete asked.

“I’m catholic,” Daredevil responded. “I’m also blind, and that’s the main issue. They’d never go for me. I don’t have the ‘purity’ or the strength. You, though…” 

“You got any serious physical deformities?” Cage asked.

“I…” Pete hesitated, before rolling back his sleeves, revealing the spinnerets and his musculature. The bruises that ran down them were starting to come back, something that he couldn’t look at. Cage took a large step back.

“Fuck, Spider, I knew you were a freak, but…” Cage hissed, looking at them. “What _are_ they?” Cage asked, the fact that he didn’t wear a mask allowing his full disgusted expression to be visible. Daredevil tilted his head slightly. 

Pete pulled a strand of spider silk from his wrist, wrapping it around his fingers carefully, allowing Cage to see it, Daredevil taking his own step back as what was happening registered in whatever odd way he perceived the world, letting them take in the tensile nature of it, and then released the strand from his wrist. Cage stared in horror as he lifted it up so they could really appreciate the silk completely, turning it this way and that so it stood out against his white skin. Pete contemplated eating it for a moment, wondering if his hands had been spared the brunt of it, but after a moment of contemplation decided it wasn’t worth it. He dropped it to the ground easily.

“Spinnerets,” Pete answered. “I wouldn’t recommend touching it. It sticks to anything that’s not me.”

“Fuck, that’s _disgusting_…” Cage whispered.

“I eat it to recycle it,” Pete said, grinning at him with those bared teeth. Pete knew he was going to do what they were telling him. He knew that he was going to work as a spy. He knew that he would go where he was hated and reviled and he would stand before the Klan itself and lie through his teeth about his hatred of negroes, and Catholics, and immigrants, and _his own people_… And in that one moment, Pete hated _them_ for forcing him into it. He hated them for putting this burden on his shoulders.

He watched as Daredevil’s exposed skin turned slightly ashen and that grin curled.

“I’ll do it,” Pete said, finally, resigning himself to the fact.

“You will?” Cage asked, shaking the disgust away. “You’ll be our mole?”

“Yes,” Pete agreed, nodding. “You said it yourself, there’s not much else. I’m assuming Tony Stark can’t do it because of position…”

“He’ll be our financer,” Daredevil grinned. “He’s going to set you up, Spider, get you all nice and ready to sidle up to these top-cats. But you’re right on the fact that there’s not much else. I’m not about to send a regular human that’s against them into their midst, but you…”

“I’m expendable,” Pete said.

“Exactly,” Cage agreed, his expression heavy. “You don’t have attachments, no one to miss you when you’re gone, and if the worst does happen…well, that’s one last person we have to worry about turning and ripping up the neighborhood.”

Pete laughed. “Fair point,” he agreed, giving a slight nod. “Well, gentlemen, is our business concluded so far?”

“No,” Daredevil denied. “You’re going to get clean, and then we’re going to head to Tony Stark. We need to get on this as soon as we can.” 

“I can follow…” Pete started.

“Nah, Spider…” Cage said, grinning at him. “For this first half, we go together. We’ll give you your privacy. Come on,” he jerked his head at Daredevil, who followed, the two of them standing at the only exit to the room, their backs to him.

Pete stood there for a moment, staring at their backs, and finally turned away, moving into the shower he had claimed as his own. His heart was pounding in his chest, heavy, heavy… He turned the rainbath on with a deliberate crank, not even bothering to remove his clothes and letting the water pour on him. The grime washed off slowly, the water seeping into his clothing heavily. His leather vest was helpful in protecting him from most of the liquid, as was his mask, both of them being made of high-quality material, but not his pants, nor his shirt. Finally, once they were all wet, he started stripping and cleaning each article of clothing as he went, that lemon-parsley soap scrubbing down everything.

Pete had only been with the other Spiders for a week at the most. Had only known of their existence for a _week_… Pete had not realized just how much he had grown used to the way they spoke to him and of him, just how much he would… Pete didn’t know. He didn’t know. The fire in his chest made him sick. Though maybe that was just what was on his clothes.

It wasn’t like they were wrong…

By the time Pete had managed to scrub himself and his clothes off to the point where he no longer smelled sewage, the water had long since turned frigid. The others waited patiently, and he could hear them talking amongst themselves. The thought of drying off was almost laughable given what he was about to change into, and he knew that even utilizing Rio’s gifts to him would be useless, given the fact that he would have to put them on _underneath_ his sodden clothes.

Pete wrung out some of the excess water, being careful not to twist too hard in order to not tear his things, before pulling them back on. They were damp, but they at least weren’t sodden, and at least he and his clothes didn’t smell. He walked out of the rainbath and to his coat which was still balled in webbing. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled the webbing open and caught the coat before it hit the ground.

“Clean, Spider?” Cage called.

“As I’ll get,” Pete responded, shaking his coat out and slinging it around his shoulders like a cape. He put his hat on, and walked up to meet the two of them standing there. Daredevil leaned close and gave an experimental sniff, Pete raising an eyebrow at him behind the mask.

“That’ll work,” Daredevil said with a nod, even as Cage was frowning at him.

“That all you have to wear, Spider?” he asked.

“Not exactly able to go to the tailors,” Pete responded.

Cage made a slight face. “No, I guess not. Well, let’s get moving. The longer we put this off the worse it may get.”

“You ready to run, Spider?” Daredevil asked, grinning at him.

Pete took a breath, fighting against the feeling of damp, fighting against the feeling of fatigue, and finally compartmentalizing them both deep inside.

“Uh-uh,” Cage denied, shaking his head. “You two might be crazy enough to go running around New York, but that’s not how this is going to go.” Cage led the way out of the bathhouse and into the street, Daredevil and Pete following after him. Cage took them a little way away from the bathhouse and into a back alley where a car was waiting. The front passenger door swung open, an unfamiliar man leaning out with a grin on his face. He was missing a tooth and his hat was crooked, but he smiled like the richest man in the world.

“Welcome to the shitshow,” he said, “destination Tony Stark.” Then he took a good look at Pete. For a long moment they stared, the wind rose, and his nose wrinkled. “It’s not coming in my car.”

“I’ll ride on top,” Pete shrugged, and climbed onto the roof of the BMW with a lazy sort of grace.

“Fucking crazy thing,” the driver hissed, but Cage entered without comment, opening the backdoor for Daredevil, who slipped inside.

The car lurched to a start, rolling out of the alley and onto the street. There were no other cars at this hour, until they got closer to Manhattan. Pete lowered himself close to the car roof, allowing the coat to make it look like he was more baggage than anything. The sound of people laughing and talking rang in his ears. The light in this area of the city was the only real challenge to the night sky, shining skyscrapers illuminated, strips of lights shining on the sidewalks, sending the people walking along these streets into sharp relief. Dames pulled on their fellas with mischievous grace, laughing, leaning into them.

Three churches and three synagogues up in smoke, and they didn’t give a fuck. Display things like him like a fucking trophy. These people…

These people.

Pete leapt off of the car when they made it to Stark Tower, Pete looking up at the mammoth building with a grin on his face. They were heading directly into the building of the man who was the pinnacle of this kind of lifestyle. What a fucking joke. The sour taste in his mouth didn’t leave even as they walked into the building, with its long lines and sloping angles, a monstrous monument to art deco, with three chandeliers lighting the interior. Pete kept his head down, even though there was no one waiting in the lobby, framed on either side by Cage and Daredevil.

Pete didn’t attempt to pay much attention to the way Daredevil looked in the middle of this place, but he couldn’t help but notice. The lack of sleeves, the gloves, the double D on his chest in combination with the devil mask… Pete ducked his head down. He doubted he looked less out of place. The only one that truly seemed to fit was Cage, and he continued their walk to the elevator.

They entered, Pete immediately backing to the far corner and waiting as the elevator made its way to the top floor. The other two didn’t pay him any attention.

The doors slid open, revealing the man himself with his back to them. The room was a wide-open thing with a large desk, a few comfortable chairs, a wall of windows that made Pete feel exposed even though they were one of the highest buildings in the area, and…

An entire bar filled with still-illegal alcohol.

Tony Stark turned to face them, sipping a martini, and then gave a wide grin.

“Gentlemen, hello! I see we have our mole… Well, let’s get to it.”


	2. Phase One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete gets déjà vu, a new suit and a haircut, and a profound feeling of loneliness. 
> 
> He also makes contact with the Klan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright PEEPS! What's up what's up! This...isn't quite Saturday, but like I said, it was a plan! Not a promise!!! XD XD Give me some fleeeeex~~~ Anyway anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! The word count is creeping up there but we're still below 10000, surprise surprise. Anyway~ I'm trying to think of warnings for this chapter, lemme see.... More dehumanization, like...a lot of dehumanization, there are two instances of violence that if not shown directly is discussed. We're being very vague with the Klan tactics, but everything mentioned is stuff that they did. 
> 
> Now! I have...something that I want to make very clear, given the differences between real history and this AU, with the increased power/activity of organized crime and the Klan as well as Nazis both putting pressure on and targeting marginalized communities, not to mention the influence of the eldritch horrors actively messing with the world, I chose to have them band together to present a united front to the world. This isn't trying to deny the complicated reality of our history, but pulling directly from race relations and the complex history of the time period complicated things a lot and didn't fit with the themes of coming together in the story that I'm trying to tell. Also, while I'm trying to be respectful of the time period and the seriousness of the subject matter I'm covering, it's a fanfic set in an alternate universe, so please cut me some slack, I beg you~
> 
> References  
If you are interested in some actual real world racial relations: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/African_American%E2%80%93Jewish_relations and you can do your own research as well. The links at the bottom can start your trail~  
https://books.google.com/books?id=P6IH1ff88nEC&pg=PA180&lpg=PA180&dq=rendered+lard%22+infant+bath&source=bl&ots=cjJ-zTQE_s&sig=TNg84e0TQGdbDEt_eWvt8wCHvLk&hl=en&sa=X&ei=m52JUN6uAcaB0QG6hoHYBw#v=onepage&q&f=false - you ever wanna read some bad parenting advice, this is it!  
https://www.redbookmag.com/life/mom-kids/g4109/worst-parenting-advice-through-the-decades/?slide=3 - more bad parenting advice XD This kind of shit is likely what Pete had to grow up with, how's that for a complex, huh?  
Warning on this source: https://www.splcenter.org/20110228/ku-klux-klan-history-racism THIS ONE is a complete history of the Klan, it is FUCKING massive and also has some really terrifying information, not just on some of their tactics but on their origins etc. Tread lightly with this source, folks! But it's also pretty much as complete as you can get.

Pete had read Tony Stark’s stories in _Marvels_. How could he not have? The places he went, the things that he did… There had been something odd in that something he _knew_ was unattainable and yet…somehow the way his stories were told, it almost seemed _reachable_. Far off places away from the ramshackle lean-to that his family had lived in before his parents were bumped off by the coppers for organizing a peaceful strike, were brought right to him, something tangible in his stories and the places he visited, the amazing things he had seen.

_ Marvels_ had been something he clung to, something he devoured before they were inevitably burnt for warmth.

Then they moved out of the Hooverville after his parents died, the life insurance money that no one had expected sending them out of homelessness, out of poverty, and into a house. Pete often suspected that the fact that neither his aunt nor his uncle had known about the life insurance was the only reason they had gotten the money. It had been a sizeable sum, and there were enough people that had started trying to claim life insurance that there was a possibility they would have been seen as attempting to murder his parents on purpose. The fact that the coppers had been the ones to kill them could have been swept under the rug easily.

Pete was honestly still surprised they hadn’t tried to make a patsy out of them. Pete still remembered the time the coppers were talking about making him a patsy for Ben Urich’s murder when he had called it in… Regardless, the money had been enough for them to make their own breadline. Enough for them to live comfortably in a way that Pete had never dreamed. Even after all of that change, all of that upheaval, the magazines were still something that he clung to as a bit of familiarity. Reading and re-reading them until they fell apart, because even though he was no longer on the street, there was still so much to worry about…

Now he was standing in front of the man they were written about… And Pete had never been quite as disappointed.

Tony Stark grinned like any socialite he had ever seen, wide and empty, tipping his martini in their direction and emptying it in a single gulp. He put the empty glass back on the bar and walked towards them clapping his hands together once and pressing his fingers together thoughtfully. Manicured fingernails, immaculate white shirt with platinum cufflinks, suspenders, a tie that had been strategically undone and thrown across his shoulders, and even that damn goatee, perfectly trimmed…

Presentation. A hollow suit.

“Gentlemen,” Stark called out, smiling at them. “Hello, hello, and who is…” he paused, taking a look at Pete, who had been mostly dried out on the drive over here, the wind drying him out and leaving him in clothes that were at least passably laundered. “Oh…” Stark said, and the grin suddenly became…sharp. “Oh-ho, well. Look at _you_…” Stark circled him thoughtfully, a finger pressed to his lips, Cage and Daredevil both moving out of the way.

“You’re _Cursed_,” Stark said, pointing at him with that finger, something morbidly fascinated in the gleam in his eye. “Well, well, now this is interesting. I’ve never seen one of you _alive_. Or…human-like.” He frowned, looking him up and down. “You still talk?”

“It still talks,” Cage said dismissively. “It’s also got a _basic_ sense of morality at least. Saved some poor people from a fate of human trafficking.” Cage’s mouth curled. “I hate that shit.”

“Agreed, agreed…” Stark said idly, still circling Pete as though he was some sort of vulture circling a corpse. “Tell me, you’re the _Spider_, aren’t you? That’s what you’re known as?"

“Yes,” Pete agreed, his hands balled into fists.

“Ah-ha, you _do_ talk,” Stark crowed, looking delighted. “Tell me, I hear that you can stick to walls and have…some form of webbing, from what I understand. Can I see it?”

Pete frowned, before giving a slight mental shrug. He flipped backwards, sticking to the wall with his head facing towards the floor, and scuttled backwards up onto the ceiling, the three men giving surprised and almost disgusted exclamations, backing away from him. Pete pressed his wrist to the ceiling and slowly lowered himself down in front of Stark with the webbing from his wrist. He tilted his head at him, watching as Stark looked from him to his webbing, and then to the ceiling. After a beat Stark laughed.

“Amazing! Truly amazing,” he smiled, “I have to say, it would be a real treat to examine your corpse…”

Pete closed his eyes against the burning bitterness in his chest, the bubbling of something deep within, and flipped to his feet. The wind blew, and Pete saw _it_ peering in through the glass windows. It stared at them, stared at the ones that were before him, and then turned its attention back to Pete. _Well_, it seemed to ask, _do you want to make a deal_?

Pete stared at them, stared at it, and then found that he didn’t give a shit.

“But that’s later,” Stark hummed, drawing Pete’s attention back to the three men. “I’ll have to tell Jarvis to remind me to buy it should anything happen… But you’re our mole, then. Smart,” he said, nodding to the other two. “Well.” He clapped his hands. “How about you take that mask off and we start taking a look at what we’re dealing with? The sooner we can work on getting you kitted out to rub shoulders with these bastards the sooner we can make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

Pete determined immediately that he would never take his mask off for this man. Pete didn’t owe Stark his identity. He didn’t owe him his _soul_. He didn’t owe him the pain that would come should he make that deal; didn’t owe him the piece of humanity he would lose… He didn’t owe him _shit_, and with all that in mind Pete said quite simply: “No.”

“…What?” Stark blinked, looking surprised.

“I’m not taking off my mask,” Pete said simply. “Not for you. Not for you,” he said, looking at Daredevil, “not for you,” he finished, looking to Cage, and there was a heat in his voice. “I don’t owe you my identity. I don’t owe you who I was.”

“If this is about your family, you have my word that…”

“You want my _corpse_, Stark,” Pete hissed. “You can figure out who I was then. I don’t owe you a damn thing. I’m here because I hate the Klan. I’m not here for you, I’m not here for you, and I’m not here for you. I might be here because of what _some_ of you represent,” Pete lowered his head slightly towards Stark, knowing that it caused his goggles to flash white. “But I don’t owe any of you a damn thing. You want another Mole? You want to know their identity? Fine. You can go to _Frank_. _Castle_.” The other men took slight steps back, their expressions darkening at the mention of Castle, and Pete allowed himself a secret smile. “If that doesn’t appeal to you, then frankly, I’m what you got, and _you_ can call me _Spider_.”

There was a silence that followed, before Stark grinned at him, leaning back slightly. “I _like_ you.” Stark said brightly. “Alright, fair enough. Spider it is. Of course, you realize that you can’t keep your face hidden from the Klan…”

Pete tilted his head slightly. “Out of state southerners and a bunch of racist fuckheads that are too focused on their own bullshit to pay attention to the ones that are actually Cursed? I’m pretty sure that I won’t have to worry about that. I didn’t run in their circles before and I sure as fuck don’t now.”

“So, you’ll be a complete unknown to them, good,” Stark agreed, nodding. “Alright… We will still have to get you fitted for clothes, a fake identity, and I’m assuming a fake address. I can’t imagine that any landlord would let you in…”

“You’re right,” Pete answered. “They wouldn’t…” The room that was considered his was holed up in an ‘uninhabited’ building, condemned, but in an out of the way street that wouldn’t be considered for a repair, at least not yet. Naturally all sorts of dregs of humanity holed up in its rotten halls. Pete’s office was just one of them. The others knew to leave his area be, and no one who entered for his office was accosted.

Pete had seen to that. Nevertheless, living there was out of the question. While fear was good for keeping them away from him, too much of it made men violent, and Pete wasn’t about to start something up. Besides, he couldn’t stand the thought of being pinned in one location like that.

“Right, right…well, that’s not much of an issue. I have a gentleman that will set you up with the identity and the fake address… What name are you thinking? The surname has to be something…oh, Williams, or Jameson. Those are generic enough.”

“Not Smith?” Daredevil asked.

“That’s _too_ generic,” Stark explained, holding a finger up. “I suppose a surname like Mathews or something like that might work. Miller? Moore? I’m stuck on M’s right now, I don’t know, do any of them sound like they would work, and you could remember?” 

“Williams,” Pete said after a moment of hesitation. He had known a Williams that was an absolute racist asshole, it would work. There was an immediate connotation in his brain, so it would be something he could use, and that was always important when delving into something like this.

Stark stroked his goatee in thought, frowning slightly. “Williams works, alright. First name, first name… Mark? Can you remember Mark Williams? I knew someone named Mark; he was an asshole. I figure you wouldn’t have an issue with that given where you’re going to be using it.”

“Sure,” Pete responded, shrugging. He wasn’t planning on giving any of them the right to use his given name anyway, not even a fake one. “Sounds good to me.”

“Alright, Mark Williams it is, I’ll get your address settled in the morning, but for now…” Stark ushered him towards the door to his office, and Pete followed his instructions, watching _it_ out of the corner of his eye as it scuttled along the windows, peering in. “We have to get you attired properly…” the door opened, and Pete saw two men, one of them standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the far wall, muttonchops prominent on his face. He looked vaguely threatening, what with his crossed arms and the way he was eyeing the other man in the room.

This one was a tall, dapper sort of gentleman, a thin handlebar mustache on his own upper lip, looking a bit out of sorts. He was holding a measuring tape and a briefcase. The realization that he was meant to take Pete’s measurements hit him then and he almost retreated, until the man took a good look at him. For a moment he was still, and then he dropped the tape and the briefcase, letting out a dismayed sound.

“Relax, Schmidt,” Stark grinned. “He’s alright, he won’t bite. He doesn’t have the teeth for it.”

“Blazes, Tony, why are you bringing _that_ here?” the man with the impressive muttonchops asked then, standing straight.

“Because he, my good friend, is our Mole. And a good one, I’d assume, given the amount of time he’s been able to keep both off the grid and away from the Hunters. He’s the Spider.” Stark said, holding his hands out in his direction as though showing off a prize trophy or item. “I’m sure you’ve both heard of him, right? The one that’s been going around saving people and _not_ eating them whole?”

To Pete’s surprise, Schmidt seemed to relax completely, actively picking up the tape, though the other man still looked distinctly on edge.

“Ah, yes,” Schmidt said, a thick German accent coloring his voice, which caused Pete’s attention to flash to him with a great deal more edge. “Yes, I am aware of the Spider.” He looked at Pete then directly, looking a good deal more relaxed than before. “You saved my sister recently,” he said, which cause Pete to narrow his eyes in confusion, and settled his flaring suspicion. There was only one German dame that Pete had saved ‘recently’ and she had come from shul. “She told me about you, but…forgive me, I was not able to stop my initial reaction upon the sight of you… You…you are _Cursed_.”

“I am,” Pete agreed. “How is your sister?” he asked.

“Fine, very good. She…well, she told me about you, but I’m afraid, I…forgot her description of you initially. Are you the one that we will be fitting today?”

“Yes,” Pete confirmed with a slight nod of his head.

“Very good,” he repeated, with a nod, “we’ll see you’re adequately dressed,” he said, grinning. “It’ll be worth it to see those _Schweinhunde_ running back to where they came, and back under their rocks.” There was a fierce anger there, and Pete was gratified to hear it. Daredevil and Cage were looking at each other, and the man gave a slightly grim, very ugly smile. “I am a recent immigrant from Germany,” he said. “My family is Jewish,” he said.

“_Ah, shit_…” Cage whispered under his breath.

“Sorry for the insinuation…” Daredevil said.

“Quite alright,” Schmidt responded tightly, holding his measuring tape in a white-knuckled grip for a moment, before relaxing it. “Now, if that is taken care of, please, remove your overcoat and come here. We will get you fitted properly.” Schmidt’s smile gentled slightly.

Pete hesitated, before giving a slight shrug and taking it off. He held it close to his chest, though, realizing that there was nowhere to put it. Stark took it from him easily, but there was a slight frown on his face at the look of him. Pete didn’t say anything, just walked towards Schmidt, who flicked his measuring tape slightly between his hands, lengthening his grip with the movement.

Schmidt didn’t comment on the state of his clothes, nor the fact that it was obvious the pants were too long on him, or the fact that his vest was the only thing to fit him properly. Schmidt made him toe off his boots, and take off his vest, which further emphasized how long the pants were on him, as well as the bagginess of his shirt.

“Arms up, _bitte_,” he said, Pete following instructions as the measuring tape went around his chest. Schmidt called the measurement out, the man whose name he still didn’t know marking it down with a scowl.

“I shouldn’t have to take down your measurements,” he grumbled.

“Write them down,” Schmidt commanded, looking to the man with the sharpest look Pete had ever seen. He paused, and then wrote it down. Schmidt didn’t acknowledge his moment of victory, simply looked thoughtful for a moment, before lowering the tape down around his waist, telling him to relax, Pete did so, letting his arms fall to his sides. They watched as the measuring tape cinched up to his waist, pulling in on the shirt he was wearing and leading to a quiet curse as just how thin he actually was became readily understood.

For a moment, Pete felt terribly, unspeakably exposed.

“Death’s head on a mop stick…” the unknown man hissed, and then Pete just felt pissed. “What’s the story, morning glory?” he asked, “You can’t satiate yourself with human flesh and thus you can’t eat?”

“It’s the Great Depression,” Pete said idly. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed given where you live, but the vast majority of people don’t exactly have much to make ends meet.”

“True enough,” Stark stated, frowning. “Don’t be like that Jarvis, he’s our Mole and we ought to do our best to make him comfortable. That said, there’s no help for it now, I don’t think. Can extra padding be used?”

“I can introduce it, yes,” Schmidt agreed, “should it be truly needed.” He hesitated for a moment before bringing the tape up around Pete’s neck. Pete held himself extremely still, for a moment images flashing through his mind of the Nazi that sliced his throat open, the pain, the blood… And then Schmidt removed the tape with a hiss. “It would likely be needed. The shoulders hide the ill health quite well.” He measured his bicep, followed by the length of his arm, both numbers being called out to Jarvis, who looked distinctly displeased. The shoulders, which apparently hid the true thinness of him, followed the eventual length of the coat that would go over his shirt, from the top of his collar to below the seat of his pants.

Pete was not all that comfortable with the hands on him. Schmidt’s touch was impersonal and brusque, he measured quickly and accurately, called the number, and moved on. But there was still a great deal of physical contact from someone that he didn’t know. The worst thing about it was the associations he had with the touch. The Nazi was the worst of it, but it was nevertheless something that held a great deal of memories, and very few of them were good.

Pete hadn’t had a lot of physical contact. You would spoil a child with too much contact. The Spiders had been the most tactile that Pete had ever encountered, and he couldn’t decide whether it was an era thing or a multiverse thing. Maybe physical touch became more common as a sign of affection as people learned more. Whatever the cause, it had been the most, and it still caused him a certain amount of unease. The measuring, however brusque and impersonal it may be, was just more nails across the chalkboard of his soul. 

Schmidt moved to measure his legs from the outseam, drawing Pete’s attention back sharply. Schmidt clucked his tongue and muttered something that Pete didn’t quite catch in German, giving out the measurement. “Last measurement,” Schmidt stated, straightening slightly. “The U, between the legs.”

Pete had a moment of confusion before the tape was pinched to the lip of the back of his pants and brought down between his legs to be pinched up at the other side at the same height. Pete had a moment where he froze, and then Schmidt gave the measurement and backed away. After Pete seemed to settle, he measured around his cuffs, wrists and ankles.

“All done,” Schmidt stated, snapping his tape measure, and placing it into his briefcase, taking the clipboard that Jarvis had been using to take his measurements into his hand and putting it into the case as well. “I will have an acceptable wardrobe created shortly. It will be padded slightly in certain areas like the waist, but otherwise he is in decent enough shape. As stated, the shoulders certainly help create the illusion of health. Now, gentlemen, I must be on my way.”

“Thank you so much, Schmidt, I’ll have your payment sorted quickly,” Stark said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“If you were not a billionaire I would do it for free,” Schmidt stated with a frown. “These Klan bastards need to be run out. It goes to a good cause.”

Stark laughed. “Well, in that case, I’ll give you extra.” He clapped him again and Schmidt made his exit. Stark turned to face Pete then, frowning slightly. “Well, for now, I think that’s all I need from you. I’ll have your documents put together… We’ll get everything else situated later, I think. For now, it’s a lot of paperwork and waiting for those suits to get finished. We’ll work on the rest of the grooming later. Nails, hair…” Stark ticked off. “Have to make it look like you have money.”

“Naturally,” Pete said dryly.

Stark smiled hollowly. “Well then, gents, I think we’re settled for a while. We will get things running in two days. Are you able to meet back here?”

“Yes,” came the general agreement, all of them turning their attention towards the billionaire.

“Are we sure we can trust it to show up?” Jarvis asked, and Pete looked at him out of the corner of his goggles.

“If you can’t, I suggest finding a new Mole,” was all Pete said, and Jarvis gave a snort of amusement. Pete put his boots back on, fixing the extra length of his trousers, as well as pulling his vest on with a sharp motion. Stark held his overcoat out and Pete took it, slinging it on before moving to the large balcony doors. It waited, always watching, but Pete ignored it with a concentrated ease. The men watched him with their heads tilted as Pete swung the doors open, and promptly dove out of the window.

The loud shout of alarm was music to his ears, and he flipped, sending a shot of webbing to the building and pulling himself close enough to get his feet attached. He rolled with his landing, the new complete stickiness utilized to his benefit to redistribute his momentum, holding his hat to his head. Pete continued the rest of the way down at a run, not willing to get in anymore enclosed spaces with those men, and not wanting to sacrifice what bit of freedom he could cling to.

Exhaustion was fleeting. Pete would run until he dropped, and then he would crawl.

Schmidt exited the building right around the time that Pete made it to the bottom by dropping right in front of him, giving a loud and horrified exclamation, the word a guttural German phrase that Pete didn’t know, but could assume was a curse. Pete pressed into the shadows that he knew he would blend perfectly with as Schmidt put a hand to his chest, breathing deep, before glaring in his general direction.

“Are you attempting to give me a heart attack, Spider? Because should you do so you will get no new clothes,” Schmidt tilted his chin up, and Pete felt his mouth curve up slightly.

“Sorry,” he said. “Your exit was in line with mine.”

“This is fine, this is fine,” he waved off, still looking a bit winded. “To be quite honest I was going to wait for you. I wished to see if you would be willing to visit my sister and myself for dinner. You would be welcome in our house, so you do not have to worry about…ah, _gazes_.”

Pete hesitated, thinking about the prospect of a warm meal with people from _his own world_ that didn’t despise him…

“I’m afraid I’m going to be borrowing him,” Cage’s voice came, causing both Pete and Schmidt to turn to look at the approaching man, who looked a bit rumpled. The idea that Cage had run out of the room and into the elevator to get to him amused Pete mildly, which stopped his tongue from the angry retort it wanted to deliver. “I’ve got a few things I need to be discussing with him.” He paused, and then turned to Schmidt further. “You and your sister are always welcome in Harlem. I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but our circles keep very close. If you need better rates, that’s the place to go.”

Schmidt made a soft sound, blinking in mild surprise, before giving him a warm smile. “I had heard, yes, but we were given our place by Stark. He was…impressed by our work in fashion. We have a studio that we are working out of already. But we will definitely keep your offer in mind.” He hesitated, looking to Pete and finally gave a slight sigh. “The offer, Spider, still stands. Merely look for the Schmidt Tailor’s in Manhattan. It is impossible to miss.” 

“Got it,” Pete said, “but before you go, I have two requests for what you make…”

“Yes, Spider? What is it?”

“Lots of pockets, please. Even if you have to hide them inside the jacket lining, I need pockets.”

Schmidt grinned, “Certainly,” he gave a nod, “what was the other thing?”

Pete hesitated and then pulled his sleeves back, baring his wrists and the spinnerets there. “Something to cover this.”

Schmidt made a disgusted sound, before…sending an apologetic look his way. “I’m sorry,” he said, which confused Pete more. “It…I was not expecting. Is that on both wrists?”

“Yes,” Pete answered. “They’re spinnerets, it’s where I produce my webbing.”

“I see,” Schmidt said, frowning at it. “Do you mind if I touch them?”

Pete was quiet for a moment, before giving a slight nod, “don’t touch the center, my webbing will stick to you.”

Schmidt nodded and carefully began pressing around the area gently, Pete clenching his hand into a fist as it tickled, the fingers feeling like an invasion. Schmidt gave a soft sound. “It is stable around the holes, this…may provide the opportunity for a light prosthetic to be used. Something that could hide the holes themselves. I may talk directly to Stark for ideas, but I will come up with something.” Pete took his arm back and gave a nod.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome, Spider,” Schmidt said with a nod and a slight smile, and then walked into the drive where a taxi was waiting.

Cage put his hands in his pockets and frowned at Pete then, his demeanor noticeably clouding, “Well, Spider, come on.” He led him over to the car they had ridden in earlier, Pete noticing that another cab had been called, likely for Daredevil when he arrived, which was an amusing thought, and Cage opened the door. The man with a missing tooth and a crooked hat peered out at them, and frowned.

“He’s still not…”

“Yes, he is, Heath, and you’re going to let him in now, or I’m going to tell that girl of yours that you’ve been getting back on the sauce.”

“Aw, dammit, Luke, it ain’t that big of a deal.”

“It absolutely is, and I’m tired of being the only one looking out for you, so I might tell her anyway,” Cage responded, frowning. “Either way, he’s riding with us.”

“Fine, get in the back, keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” Heath said, and Pete did so, Cage sitting down next to him as soon as Pete entered, shutting the door.

“Thank you,” Cage said, before turning his attention to him. “Well, ‘Williams’ we’ve got a bit of work to do before I think that you’re in any way ready to infiltrate this hate group.”

“What hate group?” Heath asked.

“He’s our Mole into the KKK,” Cage explained.

“Well, fuck, if you had said that a bit earlier, I might have let him in. You all trust him enough to let him be the one going in?” Heath asked, looking at him over his shoulder as the car started up and he began putting it in gear.

“I do,” Cage agreed. “He’s the one that saved our people from Ellis.”

Heath sucked on his teeth, sending another look at Pete, his soot-gray eyes sharp. “When they said it was a _Cursed_ that saved them, I didn’t believe it. Not when there was a Cursed that Changed with them and broke that poor man’s back.” Heath returned his attention to the road, before asking a question that made Pete’s head dip. “Why didn’t _you_ Change?” he asked, his voice almost accusatory.

“Something I was wondering too,” Cage added, looking at him directly, taking the hat off of his head as he did so. “You’ve been around since before Ellis, which puts you at, at the very least, a year of being _what you are_. How are you still as human as you are? What makes _you_ more capable of staying human than a woman that just wanted to escape her tormenters?”

“Or for that matter an eight-year-old boy?” Heath asked, spitting out of his rolled-down window, those eyes once again darkening as they focused on him in the rearview. “Why are _you_ so different?”

Pete thought for a moment about telling them the truth, about telling them that unlike all these others that they mentioned, and they knew, Pete hadn’t reached out for anything. Pete hadn’t called on any gods or any higher power to save him. Pete had long ago realized that if he wanted _anything_, he would have to rely on himself.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what made him different, if that was even the answer. Perhaps some others hadn’t reached as well, maybe there were some like him that were just losing their humanity piece by piece… Whatever the answer was, the fact remained that Pete was uncertain. There was no denying, however, that Pete very much understood their scorn. Pete understood why they would hate him for that very thing that made him so unpredictable and made him feel so unstable.

He understood. But Pete was _tired_.

“Nothing,” Pete finally said, his head lowering. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Well,” Cage said softly. “When you do finally turn…I hope it’s with the Klan and not with us."

“Agreed.” Pete lowered his head and said nothing more.

The ride was quiet the rest of the way to Harlem, and Pete had the strongest sense of déjà vu. Cage hadn’t been lying when he stated that their circles were close. Not just the Jews, but the others that were targeted as well. They circled together often, groups of Jews integrated through Harlem to the point where a lot of restaurants that weren’t run by Jews had started offering kosher, and similarly the Jewish communities had started offering modified soul food. The token of appreciation had been reacted to with a great deal of laughter and smiles.

They were in this together, it was too dangerous to go at it alone, what with how strong the hate groups were getting, and while they were never completely integrated, there was still a civility, and an understanding that they wouldn’t get anywhere else.

Pete had been in Harlem frequently with his aunt and uncle, and he had once been a well-known face there, with friends all over the district. They rubbed elbows consistently and were let in places whites weren’t, and similarly they shared their cultures in the way that they could, respect given on both sides that was long earned. While the Bowery was technically home, Harlem had really made him feel welcome. It was a sense of belonging that Pete had missed.

Pete sometimes wondered if he had been mourned when he went missing and was presumed dead. Then he always shook the thought from his mind and decided that he didn’t want to know. 

Heath finally let them out in front of one of the most popular clubs in the district, one that he had frequented with Robbie, and Pete found the only thing he felt was numb. The thing about this club that had appealed to them back when they still went, was the fact that only people that were invited or otherwise well-known could enter. This was reinforced twice as hard if a curfew was in effect. That was the thing about curfews. It could bring communities together, but it was pretty hard if you were a stranger. Cage held the door open for him, and Pete entered first, Cage following after.

The curfew was definitely still in effect he noted, taking in the patrons and seeing only people he knew, if only in passing, as well as the few new faces that had been introduced within the past year. The Lizard’s transformation and subsequent reign of destruction was still too close for normal people, the people that weren’t in the glitzy high-rises, separated by money and luxury. This, as always, was one of those places where people banded together in order to spend the long hours of the curfew amongst others and not alone. There wasn’t any music, attention being drawn in that manner was often considered to be too dangerous, but nonetheless people were laughing, and eating, and… Oh, yeah. That was definitely giggle juice…

Everything stopped as soon as Pete and Cage entered the room. People stood, men moving to stand in front of the women and children, all of them staring at Pete with fear.

“Easy, fellas,” Cage called out, holding his hands up. “This is our Mole. He’s the one that’s going to infiltrate the Klan.” He paused. “And I know a good few of you recognize him. The Spider’s still spinning its web, ladies and gents. We might as well help it along.”

There was a long silence that grew between them before a laugh started from the back.

“Hey Spider,” the man who laughed called, grinning wide, silver-rimmed glasses catching the light. Pete knew him. That was _Lenny_, he knew him from before he changed. He had wondered… Pete shook the thought from his mind.

“Yo,” Pete acknowledged before the silence grew too long, tilting his head.

“When you turn, destroy a few Klan members for me,” he said, grinning wide.

“You shred it, wheat,” Pete said and there was a sudden sense of relief.

“Alright…” the man behind the counter said, Lucky Baldwin, frowning deeply, watching him with weary eyes. “It’s allowed in here for now, but I want it be known that the minute it turns, I want it dead.”

“We’ll be out of your way, and it’s not changing now,” Cage said, waving him off. “Come on,” he indicated a shadowy corner where no one else was sitting and Pete followed him. The two of them sat down and a waiter soon came up. The man was familiar in a vague sort of way, not one of the regulars therefore, and Pete found himself staring out of the corner of his eye for a moment until it struck him.

The man had been on Ellis.

“What can I get you gentlemen?” he asked.

“Best hooch you got, and have the cook make something special. We’ve got business to talk and you can’t do that without food,” Cage said, lacing his fingers together.

“Got it,” the man said, before looking at Pete. “You saved my life,” he said, his mouth in a thin line. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I was on Ellis.”

“I remember you,” Pete corrected, his voice tired.

“Hard to forget what happened, huh?” he asked, his fingers clenching into fists. “You know, I been wondering why you happened to show up. If you’re spying on the Klan, that means you’re white, right? Why’d you get involved? No one else bothered…”

“That’s enough Marcus,” Cage said, voice tired. “We can debate the reasons until we’re ashy in the face, but now’s not the time.”

Marcus frowned at them, before finally huffing. He turned on his heel and left.

“The waiters are usually a little better than that,” Cage finally acknowledged after the silence stretched.

“He’s entitled to his skepticism.”

“Then you understand why I feel it now,” Cage stated. “I didn’t want a white man to infiltrate the Klan. Honestly, I would rather burn the whole lot of them down and not worry about figuring out who all is in it and for what reasons, but they talked me into it. You see, they brought up the fact that we _don’t_ know who all’s in it. We _don’t_ know who they might call up at a moment’s notice, what politician scrawls zeroes into their checkbook, what copper they’ve got on their payroll…” He frowned. “I was the one that talked them into you. I know you aren’t a part of it. You’ve done enough for us that it’s become increasingly obvious, and I remember when you helped me with Diamondback. I know what you did for us on Ellis.”

“What’s your point?” Pete asked, leaning forward.

“I talked them into you, but I tell you right now, if this is out of some goddamn white guilt, I want you out of this _immediately_,” Cage hissed. “I don’t need you deciding half-way through that you’re going to blow the entire thing by charging in half-cocked without a plan. I don’t need you getting stupid because you can’t keep your damn hero complex out of the damn equation.”

Pete blinked, feeling a grin pull at his mouth, before finally losing himself in a laugh that he hadn’t expected. Ugly and bitter and something he had to physically bite back, it made Cage narrow his eyes, his fists clenching, and Pete waved it off. “I’m sorry,” Pete said. “I’ve just never had someone call it a hero complex.”

“What would you call it?” Cage asked, letting himself relax.

“A complete disregard for my own life,” Pete shrugged. “But alright, Cage, I’ll keep out of my own way.”

“Good. Now, we’re going to be working on your backstory, your reason for hating us. Obviously, the Klan has a lot of things they hate, particularly now… This new batch spitting on everyone from the Jews to the Catholic to the Negro. Hell, I’ve even heard tell that they’ve been beating their own women when they get the opportunity. Some poor dame got beaten for adultery after she divorced her first husband and remarried.” Cage frowned, his expression dark. “So, Spider, with that in mind, what makes you hate us?”

Pete blinked, before tilting his head back. “Hypothetically in this situation…?”

“Of course, hypothetically,” Cage said, rolling his eyes. “I know you don’t suffer from their delusions, but you have to have a reason to hate us if they’re going to buy you.”

Pete hesitated, tilting his head slightly, and then proceeded to spit out one of the filthiest slurs he knew, following it up with a quiet rant that made Cage balk, and then grin, and finally laugh.

“Alright, alright, you’ve got the talk down, how on earth…? Was one of your relatives a racist fuck?”

“I had a…friend…” Pete started softly, “they wouldn’t let him in places, and because I…well, I’m white,” lies, “I was able to draw attention easy enough. Not only could I get them to completely miss the fact that he had been in and was taking pictures, because once one of them starts ranting the rest start in on it and often lose track of anything else, he’d also have the ability to take a few snapshots of the guests. That was one of the less common methods. It depended on where we were at. If there was a sign on the wall, you best believe that we used that method.”

“Using yourself as a smokescreen, that’s pretty clever, did you both come up with it?”

“I’d noticed the way people had started to react to that kind of talk, so I suggested it, he agreed, and we worked together from there,” Pete responded tiredly .

“I gotta say…” Cage trailed off as he leaned back on his chair, smiling slightly. “Alright, so you’re _used_ to partnering then. Did he tell you what to say?”

“We had a list of things that were acceptable and what made him laugh, versus things that made him want to punch me in the face on principle,” Pete responded.

“Perfect,” Cage grinned. “Alright. Well, you’ve got the talk down, can you walk the walk?”

“Can I _hurt_ someone?” Pete asked.

“Oh yeah, Spider…can you beat a poor wretch?” Cage asked, leaning forward. “Can you spit on an old Jewish grandma, can you beat a little negro boy that just wants to sell you a paper, can you…”

“No,” Pete answered. “Not…not without some orchestration, some understanding.”

“Well then, you’re in luck,” Cage said, spreading his hands. “Because here, we’re going to work on that orchestration. We’ll get them thinking you’re the biggest racist fuck in this little corner of New York. And we’re also going to get you settled with a backstory so airtight that they won’t have any idea.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Pete shrugged, leaning forward slightly to put his crossed arms on the table. Cage grinned at him.

“Hey, gents,” Cage called out. Pete blinked in slight surprise as they all turned to him, various sounds of consideration being made. “Got any volunteers to help this man prove he’s a racist son-of-a-bitch to a bunch of Klan fucks?”

The laughter that followed was surprising, as was the number of people that approached. The number of people he _knew_. The whiskey was brought shortly after, as well as food, though when Pete looked at what they placed in front of him he realized the meat was raw. Pete hadn’t yet found himself struck with the need to eat raw meat, and worse, he was afraid that his body wouldn’t handle it should he try and eat it. The realization that he likely wasn’t going to be able to eat anything after all was swept up in a flurry of organization and planning.

By the time the night was through, Pete had a working backstory, a slew of volunteers that were willing to listen for his voice and react appropriately, and a new list of things that he was able to say to the congregated minorities around him.

He also hadn’t eaten a single thing and when they finally figuratively signed off on their agreement, Pete left, knowing that there was nothing else for it, and in the hubbub, he hadn’t been able to ask for anything more. Hadn’t _wanted_ to ask for anything more or different. Though really, he wondered if that hadn’t been the point. Pete wouldn’t take off his mask all the way, why not give him something he couldn’t actually eat. By the end of it, the only thing in his belly was whiskey, and Pete found that while it was supposed to keep him warm, the only thing he felt was cold, and that slight lightheadedness that hummed in his skull.

Pete found a small corner far away from Harlem, curling up tight in his web-hammock, trying to fall asleep, trying to ignore the pain of not eating that he had somehow forgotten in just those few short days of being with people that actually cared about him… But he was too tired for that. For once, Pete was exhausted deep into his soul, and the thought of going to the Spiders was painful. Before he could manage to go to sleep, there was a buzzing on his wrist. Pete blinked, before looking at the goober in realization. He slowly uncurled enough to open it and found a text from Miles. After a moment, looking down around him to make sure no one was near that would see, Pete opened the image file.

And found he couldn’t breathe.

The picture Miles had taken was of a…he thought Miles had called them ‘tags,’ and it was a wonderful mishmash of colors and shapes. He didn’t know exactly what it was that he was seeing, but he honestly didn’t care. The shapes blurred and ran together in a series of interlocking patterns that drew his eye from one end to the other. It was beautiful, it was…

Pete blinked heavy eyes, realizing as he did so that they likely wouldn’t open again for a while, and he fell asleep without answering, something warm filling his chest that for once, didn’t feel like burning. When he finally woke up, it was to screaming. Pete ran to find the location of the screaming, leaping and twisting over gaps between buildings, looking into alleys and in streets, trying to find the cause.

When he finally did it was to the sight of a man kneeling in the middle of the street, his hands pressed to his forehead. His voice held the thick accent of an Irishman and when Pete finally got close enough to see what had been done, Pete felt sick to his stomach.

The Klan was getting braver. They were attacking people in broad daylight.

And Pete hadn’t even seen anyone that had done it. By the time that they had managed to get the man to stop screaming long enough to get him to a doctor, Pete was more certain than ever that he was going to do this, and he was going to do this well. Stark and the rest be damned, he wasn’t about to let the Klan get away with this.

* * *

Pete stood before Stark’s tower with a foreboding deep in his soul and a throb of something angry deep in his chest. It had been two days of ever-increasing escalation and Pete was tired. He’d been running all over New York trying to see what he could do. There wasn’t much. He hadn’t been properly established yet, and he was holding to the promise he had made to not run in half-cocked without a plan. The familiar burn of his spinnerets was back, complete with the tension that came when he flexed his wrists, bruises running down the length of his arms.

For a moment he thought of Porker and wondering if he had any advice for him, and then he shoved it back.

Tonight, was about final prep work, and then Pete would finally be able to do what he had been waiting for. Pete entered the building to find Luke Cage and a man that he knew was Matthew Murdock. Daredevil was out of the suit, and that was enough to get him to straighten his own back. Pete wasn’t wearing his mask. He’d come with a thick scarf that covered the lower half of his face, and more importantly, his old glasses, that he had modified into sunglasses that would hide his eyes. The hat on his head helped further complete the anonymity, and while he knew that he would have to remove it so his hair could be cut, he assumed Stark would have someone ready for that, for now at least it could stay.

If they were surprised to see a bit of his skin neither of them said anything, they just followed him to the elevator, both of them behind and to either side of him. The elevator ride up was quiet, and when the door finally opened he was surprised to find someone he recognized and hadn’t expected standing with the rest. Schmidt was standing with what looked like a small wardrobe of clothing next to him, while Charles Richards had what looked like an entire bag full of haircutting supplies.

He always had been over-prepared.

“Hello, Williams,” Stark grinned, clapping his hands together, calling him the fake name they had agreed to. Pete was relieved he stuck to the surname. “We have your first couple of weeks’ worth of clothing, and this gentleman here, Richards, will be cutting your hair if it needs it.”

Pete hesitated, before finally taking the hat off with a slight shrug. “It needs it,” he said, and Charles made a dismayed sound that would have made Pete laugh in another life.

“With me,” he said, gesturing for Pete to follow. Pete did, following him all the way over to the bathroom, which was bigger than his entire room when he had lived in the Bowery. Charles sat him down on the toilet, covered his shoulders with a towel and after a bit of hesitation, Pete unwrapped his scarf, keeping the glasses on. While there might be some connections with his jawline, the scars were very much something he had gained later. No one that knew him before would expect them, and even with Charles, who Pete had known before he had turned, he doubted that the connection would be made.

Sure enough, Charles didn’t say a damn thing in recognition, just cut his hair carefully, having him wet it in the sink first. There was none of the back and forth that Pete had grown so used to with him. The man had been like another uncle or a much older brother, Pete had never been certain, and the silence between them sat heavily on his shoulders in a way that Pete had never felt. Pete didn’t ask him about his family, about little Rosie who would be turning four this year, about his wife Becky…

“The hell did you do this to your hair?” Charles finally asked him, “I didn’t think the whole cursed thing came with a bad haircut, so what the hell did you do?”

“Cut it with a knife,” Pete answered. Charles made a dismayed sound.

“Why would you go and do that for?” Charles asked, taking a step back to glare at him properly, his own tightly curled hair perfectly trimmed.

“Keep it out of my face,” Pete answered, shrugging. “It’s not like I have money to pay a barber, and it’s also not like anyone was going to see it.”

Charles hesitated, frowning, before finally huffing out a quiet curse. “Well, until you’re through with this operation you’re going to come to me. My barbershop is in Harlem, if you need it cut again before this is over…you’re welcome there.”

“Thank you,” Pete said softly.

“Yeah, well, you’re a key part of this operation and I’m going to do my part to make sure it goes well,” Charles glared. “This isn’t out of any favors to you, you understand?”

Pete closed his eyes, finally feeling that pull from his lips twisting into the ugly smile he truly couldn’t help. “I understand perfectly,” he said.

Charles tilted his head up slightly, looking down his broad nose at him and finally give a huff. “Alright, just so we’re clear.”

Charles finished cutting his hair and Pete wrapped the scarf back around the lower half of his face after Charles brushed off his shoulders of the excess hair. Pete caught a glance of his reflection in the mirror as they passed, and he had to say it was a definite improvement. Schmidt had laid out an outfit for him when they got back, and Stark was holding his new birth certificate as well as what looked like various series of dates and numbers with various words next to them, a job identification card and a social security number. Pete took the birth certificate first, reading ‘Mark Williams, Date of Birth: 8/13/1900’ and almost laughed. He bit it down and kept looking it over, memorizing where it said he was born, and carefully adding it to the folder that Stark handed over.

“Do you have anywhere you can keep those safe?” Stark asked.

“I do,” he agreed, nodding his head.

“Good,” Stark nodded, “while I don’t know if they’ll be necessary, it’s probably best for you to have them. I have a few character witnesses here if you need them, too. They’re forged, naturally, but you shouldn’t have an issue with that.”

Pete stuck them in the folder, too, and finally turned to Schmidt.

“Alright,” Schmidt started, “your first few outfits have been finished completely, I have a couple that I am still working on. I don’t believe you need to worry about having them all at once, and perhaps you will be so successful you won’t need them at all. We will hope for the best.” He held them out to him. “Your scarf will match, if you wish to keep it on, as will your hat. I went with mostly black; I think that will be the best shade for you considering I don’t know how often you can launder anything, and your complexion…it may be best to highlight that.”

“Ace,” Pete agreed brightly enough, taking the…the suit that Schmidt handed him. It was a _suit_, and Pete had never owned one before, had never thought he would. He bet that he would have to give it back after this was all over, but for now…well, for now it was his. Schmidt made another sound then and brought out a small wooden case that would fit in his pocket, snapping it open and reaching inside.

“This,” Schmidt said, holding up two flat discs and handing them over, Pete taking them and almost flinching at the feeling of them between his fingers. It felt like flesh. “This is what we will use to cover your spinnerets…” Schmidt held open the small case, showing him what looked like some type of glue. “Your skin being so white made it easy to get this made, but you will take this paintbrush,” he said, picking up the small brush that had been cut to fit into the case, “cover the back with adhesive,” he said, demonstrating on one of the discs, and Pete held his arm out, pulling his sleeve up, “And press it here.” So, saying Schmidt pressed the disc down over his spinneret, pressing the disc down on the skin around them, smoothing it down. Pete had to choke back a sound, balling his hand into a fist, and twitching, the agony filling him at the feeling something he bit back, trying not to reveal. Schmidt didn’t comment, merely indicated for Pete to offer his other arm up.

Pete did, not saying a word as Schmidt repeated the process, before handing him the case, letting him see the vast amounts of the odd material, and snapping it shut, before he put it in his pocket.

After a moment where they watched him expectantly, Pete left to get changed.

Pete entered the bathroom out of sight, and for a moment, before he moved to change, Pete held his wrists, giving into the odd awfulness of the feeling that twisted in his stomach. Pete was sensitive to adhesives that weren’t his webbing. He worried about the glue and what it would do to his spinnerets, but for now he had no choice. Pete pushed the feeling away and began getting changed.

Pete had forgotten what it was like to have clothes that actually fit him. While they had moved out of the Hooverville, they were still careful to save where they could, and buying clothes second-hand or otherwise was still a common enough practice that Pete hadn’t had very many clothes that fit them. While sewing was a common practice, Pete had often been so busy that he hadn’t had time to adjust anything, and eventually wound up not caring. His entire _family_ had often been so busy that there just wasn’t time to adjust everything, so this…

Pete looked at the closed door, and after a moment of hesitation, unwrapped the scarf, and removed the glasses, before standing in front of the full-length mirror that Stark had in his bathroom for whatever reason. Vanity, perhaps, whatever the reason, it was on the back of the door, and he stared at it for the longest time. His reflection stared back, and Pete examined the man in the mirror closely. The lack of glasses, the cuts on his face, the way he carried himself…

No one from Pete’s old life would recognize him. Pete didn’t even recognize himself. Pete wrapped the scarf around his face again regardless, replacing the sunglasses and his hat, before carefully wrapping his spidersuit in webbing after folding it up neatly. He would stick it somewhere out of the way before he got settled, eventually doing the same with the new folder that contained his information as soon as it was no longer needed. The pockets that were in his coat would be able to give him a place to hold what was necessary, Schmidt had definitely delivered on that front, plenty of secret pockets within both the coat and the pants.

When he finally left the bathroom, they all turned to look at him, giving sharp little exclamations of praise for Schmidt’s work, and the way everything came together.

“Alright, you have your backstory?” Stark asked.

“Yes,” Pete agreed.

“Okay. I think that’s it then,” Stark said, turning to the others. “Final words?”

“Don’t fuck this up, Spider,” Cage rumbled low.

“They’re in Westchester,” Murdoch said, his voice stiff. “You’ll find the recruiter by Bailey’s. His name’s Sylvester Wright. It shouldn’t take much,” Murdoch tilted his head slightly. “They really believe everyone thinks the way they do.”

“There’s a cab in the drive, it’ll take you there,” Stark said.

“Report back as soon as you can. Stark’s given you a list of codewords to use on phones if you get an opportunity, as well as our numbers. We’re the only ones you can report to specifically unless given other permission,” Cage said. “Is all of this clear?”

“Crystal,” Pete agreed with a nod.

“Good. Good luck.”

Pete left with a nod of his head after carefully wrapping the other clothes in webbing, keeping them in their tissue paper packaging in order to keep them as dust free as possible. His webbing was both waterproof and worked very well as a preservative, so they should be fine. He took the cab that was waiting for him with no small measure of trepidation, telling the cabbie to let him out before he got to Bailey’s so he could hide the webbing-wrapped clothing parcels, and carefully organized his documents.

When he was finally finished, he unwrapped his scarf and walked into Westchester, keeping his back straight, his gait a long thing that he had practiced with Robbie. It ate up distance quickly, and better yet, gave him the look of a man that thought he owned the place. Bailey’s wasn’t hard to spot, nor was the man that stood outside of it, a platinum-haired individual that couldn’t have been much older than Pete was pretending to be, giving the people around him a look of complete condescension.

Pete smirked to himself, and deliberately knocked into one of the people walking by him. He immediately cussed him out, and proceeded to make the biggest deal out of it that he could. The man that had caught his attention laughed at one of his finer points and walked up to him with a very similar stride, a grin on his face.

“They really are good for nothing, aren’t they?” he said, watching the man that Pete had bumped into as he backed away.

Pete scoffed, and made a comment that caused the man he now knew was Sylvester to laugh, turning a grinning face his way.

“Say, friend…you seem like a fine sort… Do you think I could buy you a drink? I know where…ah, they haven’t quite managed to cut off the flow, if you know what I mean…”

“Why not?” Pete agreed, and followed the man into the city, starting up a dialogue that his aunt would have washed his mouth out for, and his uncle would have been so disappointed by.

Phase one had been set in motion. It was only a matter of time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading~ I hope you all have a delightful week!


	3. Backstabbing and Emptiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, peeps! I'm so sorry for how long this took, however, I got a new job! I'm super excited, but that does cut into my writing time significantly. Though really, this chapter in and of itself was extremely hard to write. I think I cut about eleven pages? I don't even really want to think about it, it's just...exhausting. This story is very grim, friends, and it's draining to write. Take care of yourselves, yo. Oh, I would also say that like. Reference to bugging is used? And there's like...you can quibble with the time period alright, but I figure if Stark can make a working robot he can probably make something that can pick up sound and see what's going on inside a house. Like damn. Do I think he'd mass produce it? No. But I can see him utilizing something like that. 
> 
> Warnings: Self-harm? I think? Basically he gets stabbed in the back and in order to hide it he winds up making defensive cuts that make it seem as though he was attacked that way, since normal humans don't heal the way he does.  
A depiction of the Klan initiation ritual takes place.  
Crosses are burnt. There is an alter.  
Um. Grim? This is just grim.  
There's the Klan, yo. There's some bullshit random racism going on here and it's gross and is called out for being gross and misguided and cut off, but shit is implied.
> 
> References: https://infinitespider.com/spider-legs-work/ - something cool af, but also creepy af? Spiders are hydraulic XD XD The reason they move so jerkily is because of this system of locomotion. Jumping spiders use this to shoot all the fluid back at once going FWEEEE! They're weird and yet awful and yet cool.

Pete had never been more out of place. Even with a large pocketbook in his back pocket from Stark which held more money than Pete had ever seen currently burning holes through it, the place Wright had taken him made him feel unmistakably like a phony. It wasn’t even that Pete didn’t have experience blending in places he shouldn’t have; Pete absolutely had gone undercover before. He was a private detective, sometimes that was a part of his job, and he could do it well. Pete had hidden in plain sight and been able to not just get all of the information he needed, but more. Pete knew what he was doing, he knew how not to say too much, how to imply the fact that he held onto more knowledge than he was giving and draw the other person into giving more information than they realized. He was _good_ at it, even, but this…

Pete hadn’t been able to do something like this since the wind increased, since it had begun to smell more like rain wherever he went as too much of his humanity was taken, but here… This was Manhattan, this was wide open balcony doors and rich fellas and their dames cozying up to them, no care for anything.

The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.

Pete had to deliberately keep himself from reacting at the prices on the menu, keep himself polite, and try and avoid having his Bowery accent slip through too much. There was no money in the Bowery, and even though Stark’s background had included a lucky break and an escape from the Bowery, there would be no way a self-made man would keep hold of his roots. Regardless, everything that Pete was rebelled against everything around him.

Wright, on the other hand was perfectly at home in his surroundings. He talked to the waiters, laughed at conversations, traded jokes, and, luckily enough for Pete, liked to talk. He liked to talk a _lot_. He talked about everything from the state of the country due to immigration, to ‘those damn Jews’ and those… Pete had to take a sip of his scotch to cover up the way his nose wanted to wrinkle. The drink had been ordered for him, and Pete was careful about it. He wasn’t exactly a lightweight, but he had been lowering in tolerance lately, and the last thing he wanted was to get slippery with his words. It probably had something to do with his lack of weight.

It was amazing what could change in a year. Pete still remembered that first drink he had gotten with Ben Urich at the Black Cat, Felicia… Pete found his head lowering, slightly, and he went to take a sip of his drink again, only for Wright to elbow him gently.

“What’s got you so glum, chum?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at him, eyes paler than his own reflecting real concern. “You ain’t said much, your scotch not up to taste?”

“It’s fine,” Pete responded, feeling vaguely nauseated at the sight of that concern reflected at him from someone he knew would hate him if he knew… “I was just…lost in thought for a second.” His eyes danced to the couples across from him, watching them dance together, his mouth turning down at the corners.

“Dame trouble?” Wright asked, following his gaze. Pete allowed himself to nod, grimacing as though the thought pained him. “Ah, yeah, that’d do it,” Wright sighed. “Women…can’t live with them, but you can’t live without them…” he gave a slight shrug.

“She was attacked,” Pete said, his voice soft. “I couldn’t save her.”

Wright’s entire countenance changed, and he turned to look at Pete with wide eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s a lot different…some negro?”

Pete felt like he had swallowed razors, but allowed himself to nod, ducking his head down, knowing it would lead credence to his want to join the Klan, and also win him sympathy points. Both of which were _very_ important. He just wished it wasn’t off the back of what actually happened… The problem was, though, if he didn’t keep it mostly accurate there would be no way to sell it.

The thing about lies, the best kind of lies at least, was they always held a grain of truth in them, and Pete knew that he would be doing a lot of lying, and he had to make it count.

The comment that Wright made afterwards made Pete take another sip of his drink to bite back the retort that he wanted to make, instead allowing his head to dip in what could be easily interpreted as a nod. Wright hummed sympathetically and clasped his shoulder.

“You know, Williams…there are organizations out there that are doing their best for the common people,” Wright said softly. “Organizations that can see the…harm that these groups are doing to America, and to freedom. These…monsters that are showing up, Williams, you know that there was an increase of over 75% in their appearance once immigration started becoming more common? And there’s been such a…”

Pete did his best to appear interested, kept his gaze locked on Wright, nodding at all the right times, but the longer he talked the more Pete wanted to strangle him. Wright was right about the immigration increase, but the thing he wasn’t taking into account was the Great Depression hit at almost the exact same time. A bubble had been produced that had popped, it had nothing to do with the immigrants, or anything else that he was saying.

Most of the immigrants that came had been desperate, that was true, but they had seen America as an escape, as an _opportunity_. They had been willing to make it work. The stock market collapse, everything that followed, that was the true key. That was the start of the desperation and the true ticket that had allowed the gods to get more of a hold, had brought them into their current crisis. ‘_Immigration_,’ Pete had to take another drink.

Pete looked at his half-empty glass and realized that he might be in trouble if this was the way the conversation would continue. He needed food or something to balance the alcohol in his system. Idly, Pete wondered how Mr. Davis would react to him drinking. That was illegal on two fronts, age, and prohibition.

Though, his birth certificate said he was thirty-three. It was only half illegal. 

“It all sounds pretty keen,” he said when Wright finished, the man looking at him with a wide smile, his hand on Pete’s shoulder as though it was meant to be there.

“What if I told you _you_ could be a part of it?” Wright asked with the air of a salesman about to make his final pitch. Pete turned interested eyes his way, raising a singular eyebrow.

“I’d say that you had to be joshing,” Pete responded.

“No, not at all…in fact, I’d be quite willing to vouch for you,” Wright said, grinning. “You see…we’re recruiting people into our little organization, and you might be the perfect one to bring into the fold. What, with your background…you know better than most exactly how…”

Pete took a deep breath, listening to him, giving periodic nods, allowing his expression to brighten periodically, until finally he gave him a grin. “Well, damn. Are you sure that you’d be willing to vouch for me? You barely even _know_ me…”

“Well, Williams, I think that I’m a very good judge of character,” Wright said, smiling at him. “I can tell who’s passing, and I can tell right away when someone doesn’t…_fit_, and you, my friend, absolutely do fit.” Pete knocked back the rest of his drink. “You also seem like a fine sort of man. You want to make your country better; you want to keep your family safe, and you want to keep what happened to your dame from happening to anyone else. All of those, in my book, are perfectly good reasons to take you in. We’ll need a birth certificate and a character witness, of course, but that’s easily taken care of.”

Pete took a breath, and then finally shrugged. “Well then, Wright…I think I’d be happy to join you.”

“Sylvester,” Wright said, taking his hand in his and shaking it. “Welcome to the Klan.”

* * *

Pete wasn’t expecting for the initiation to be as frightening, and yet somehow laughable as it was

Fifty men stood in front of him, all of them clad in the white hooded garb of the Klan, a burning cross before them, and a stone alter to the side. Surprisingly enough, their ‘ritual’ took place, not in the sewer he had been dreading, but nonetheless underground. Unused subway tunnels, ones that they were using to work on connecting the city together, but nonetheless unfinished. The distant rumbling of the subway was heard periodically, but the most important thing was that burning cross, and that stone alter.

It had been two days of getting slowly closer, presenting character references and reporting back to Stark and co, before finally he had been accepted fully, and here he stood at the alter of something he hated, about to kneel and claim his position. There were more of them behind him, but Pete had been the one they had chosen to be knighted.

He’d been right about the sympathy points.

Wright had spread his sob story around, and it had gained a lot of traction, bringing him further into the fold that he needed to fall into. It wasn’t enough to make him one of the elite, but it was enough to lend him an ear, and that’s what he needed. The closer he got to the elite group, the easier it would be to figure out who all was involved with the organization and how to stop them.

Regardless, Pete found himself kneeling before that alter, bowing his head as the Grand Wizard of the Klan spoke, his face veiled, and hadn’t _that_ name been a treat to figure out. Pete hadn’t known how to react when he heard some of the titles that they were given. Grand Dragon, Grand _Cyclops_… Pete had nearly spat his drink, which would have been a major problem. Either way, the names were ridiculous, this ritual was ridiculous, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he knew that they had the power and the hate to be able to truly affect the world around him…

And worse, his spidersense wouldn’t stop screaming. It was never-ending, a low drone that rose to a fever pitch and then waned again, a powerful dread welling up within him, along with the knowledge that he would have a splitting headache as soon as he left, if not sooner. These people, if they knew what and who he was, would all want him dead. He knew that with every fiber of his being. But his spidersense wouldn’t shut up about it anyway

Pete closed his eyes, feeling as the naked sword was placed on his shoulder, the flat of the blade and not the edge. It made his spidersense scream, he idly thought he might be sick, or pass out, he hoped that it would be seen as reverence and not the absolute horror and disgust that it actually was, the fear echoing through his mind splitting his head in two. It rested there as the Grand Wizard uttered his final blessing, and then Pete was encouraged to stand.

“Welcome, Knights of the Klan!” the Grand Wizard bellowed, holding his arms up, and the new recruits cheered, Pete allowing his own voice to cry out. He bowed and took the signature robes as they were offered. He tasted bile.

The only thing that Pete hoped was this whole thing would be done with quickly.

* * *

Pete’s first report was as impersonal as possible. Due to the fact that they all left at once he was forced to follow the main crowd, acting as though he was heading home. The robes were in a bag that he kept underneath his jacket, and Pete wanted to burn them. He wanted to burn them like they burned that cross, like they burned shuls, like they burned chapels, like they burned _people_.

He hated them, he hated them, he hated them.

Regardless, he stopped to make a phone call in a booth, carefully inserting his change and calling direct to Cage. Cage picked up on the third ring, knowing that Pete was going to be accepted into their fold and therefore staying near the phone.

“Hello, Cole?” Pete asked, using the agreed upon fake name they had decided on.

“Speaking, that you Williams?” Cage asked.

“It is, it is,” Pete answered, twirling the phone chord in his fingers.

“Well, how’d the interview go?” Cage asked.

“Swell,” Pete answered, “thank you for setting that up, it really went very well. I definitely got the job.”

“I’m damn proud of you, that was a hard thing to get into,” Cage said.

“Yeah,” Pete agreed, sighing. “It was a lucky break.”

“Well, you’ve got it, man, that’s all that matters. Will me and the girls be seeing you later?”

“No, sorry, Cole, but I can’t. I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, but I have some things to attend to. Say hi to the wife and kids for me,” Pete said.

“I will,” Cage responded. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Pete hung up, sighing, and took a step out of the booth. The man in front of him made him take a step back, his spidersense screaming once again, buzzing in his temples. It wouldn’t _shut_ _up_!

Pete was so _tired_…

“Hello,” the unknown man said, grinning, and Pete recognized him as one of the new recruits. The only ones that hadn’t been hooded had been the recruits, and that had been one hell of a kick in the teeth. Pete didn’t care about the small fry and neither did anyone else, but the leaders, the organizers? The Dragons and the Wizards, that was what he would have to destroy, and he still found the thought amusing. 

This, however, was not at all funny.

“Hello,” Pete returned, watching him warily. “Can I help you?”

After a while the man didn’t respond, so Pete finally turned and began walking in the opposite direction. As he walked, though, he was keenly aware of the fact that the man was following him. Pete hesitated, and then began winding his way through the pedestrian traffic in a way that should hopefully shake him. As he went, he did his best to attract attention to the fact that he was being followed, knowing that something was likely to happen, and he needed witnesses to the fact that something was wrong. His spidersense was still screaming, and Pete was very uneasy.

Finally, he came to the conclusion that the man wouldn’t be leaving him alone anytime soon. Pete immediately began doubling back and walking in a way that would get the man to lose him. He had no desire to be cornered by him, and he was pretty sure that either way he sliced it, getting caught would be bad news. When his spidersense no longer screamed at him, Pete allowed himself to take to the rooftops, knowing that if he had done so any earlier the jig might have been up, but now the only thing he wanted to do was run.

Pete had never been a part of an organization where the members tried to menace other members, and he didn’t particularly like it. Pete knew that he would have to do his best to keep his distance if he could but given that he would be in the same rank and caste as him, Pete thought it would be rather difficult.

So, maybe he needed to stop it before it became a real threat.

Not even a day later and Pete found himself in the inopportune but expected position of being cornered by the exact same man that he had been trying to avoid. He hadn’t quite come up with a plan to deal with him, which was unfortunate, but he could deal with it now.

To top off an already odd day, and this he had not expected at all, the other men that he was in the same caste with had noted the odd man’s ire and had actively been trying to warn Pete about him. This was the thing that Pete was mainly frightened by, the fact that to a man, the whole of them had been…remarkably _decent_ to him. They seemed…nice, in a way that made him want to vomit, showing honest concern about one of their new members, and informing him that someone had a grudge.

The way they talked about the supposed ‘others’ however, revealed just how truly awful they actually were.

They’d also been going about introducing themselves to him, talking about the meetings that they would be in, and just…genuinely being concerned about his welfare. Everything about this made Pete uncomfortable and want to take a long shower afterwards.

Regardless, their constant warnings hadn’t kept him from getting cornered, but to be fair, Pete had been after it. He wanted a fight that he understood, he wanted a person that hated him in the way that they were supposed to, that wouldn’t ask him to meet for lunch after the meeting was over even as Pete’s spidersense buzzed in his skull in warning. 

So, here Pete stood, cornered in one of the more disused subway tunnels, watching a man that walked towards him with heavy feet, swaying slightly in a way that suggested heavy liquor had been involved in his bravery.

“You were the one they selected to be knighted,” the man said, his lips pursed slightly when he finally stood before him. The man was taller than him by a solid half-foot, staring down at him with blazing eyes that were bloodshot and above all, _mean_. 

“You’re going to talk about this _here_?” Pete asked quietly, looking at the entrance to the little tunnel they were in, checking for passing members of the Klan. 

“Why do you care?” the man asked, his eyes narrowing. “Are you _ashamed_?”

“No, you daft idiot,” Pete found himself biting out before he could help it. “They chose me because I know the recruiter personally, and because they know my circumstances… It has nothing to do with shame.” He leveled a glare at the man who just casually raised an eyebrow, a slight grin on his face. The man leaned closer, and he smelled of whiskey, and his steely grey eyes were bright, his wax-paper skin a pale that rivaled Pete’s own, glossy white hair sleeked back on his head.

“I think you’re _ashamed_,” he whispered in Pete’s ear, and Pete jerked back. “Why else wouldn’t you accept any invites to go with the others? Why else would you have looked like you wanted to vomit when they rested the sword on your shoulder?”

“You’re full of shit,” Pete hissed, raising himself up to his full height and trying to look intimidating to a man who dwarfed him in almost every way. “You’re also drunk, you need to go home to whatever hovel you call yours and sleep it off. I think the one who’s _really_ ashamed,” Pete whispered, “is _you_, considering you couldn’t even be here sober. You wonder why they chose _me_ to represent our group? It’s because they have people like _you_ to compete with me.”

“You watch your _mouth_,” he hissed, taking a step towards Pete in warning.

Pete took a step back, holding his hands up. “Look, I have to go, there’s a few things that I need to take care of. I’ll see you at the next meeting,” he mumbled, and turned. In retrospect, this was a dumb move, but Pete was tired, and the ringing in his skull had turned into a definite headache by this point, agony pulsing behind his eyes. He just wanted to go _home_.

In the end, Pete had only taken a couple of steps before his spidersense screamed even more sharply than it had, but by then it was too late. A fire burned in his lower-back, and Pete stumbled, before falling to the ground and kicking up and back, catching the man in the groin and causing him to fall to his knees.

The man made an awful sound, cradling his bits, and looking a bit as though he might throw up.

“You son of a bitch!” he screamed out, and lurched towards him, his hands and gaze firmly locked on the knife that was still in Pete. Pete kicked back again in a sweep that ground the knife deeper, causing him to let out a soft sound of pain, even as his boot cracked into the side of the man’s head and sent him bouncing off the concrete ground head-first. He didn’t move again.

Pete hesitated, agony searing through him. Finally, he reached back, trying to find the knife handle, only to find that it was wedged in that perfect spot that made it not only difficult to pull it out, but dangerous. If he pulled at the wrong angle it could seriously mess him up. Not to mention the fact that every time he tried it burned, and Pete found himself just about ready to throw up because of pain.

Pete didn’t want to go to the Klan for help, but there was a knife in his back, and he was bleeding, and soon he’d be bleeding _out_… He needed help, he needed…

Rio…

Pete opened his goober and began hunting for her name. When he found it, he pressed the button to select her, and typed a quick message, fighting the black spots in his eyes.

Pete_: Are you busy? _

Rio_: No, not at all! I got done with my shift for the day and I’m enjoying a little break at home. How are you doing?_

Pete_: I need help._

Rio_: Come now_

Pete turned his goober to the proper channel, pressed twice, and fell through the portal. He hoped that the man wouldn’t be found, they had been in such a far off tunnel and people had been leaving, so it was likely… He knew that there was a patrol, but it was later, and there would be a narrow window where he might be able to come up with a story to explain the man, and the knife. 

Pete finally tumbled into Rio’s living room, Rio letting out a shocked gasp at the sight of him, particularly as Pete allowed a groan to leave his lips at the feeling of that knife digging deeper.

“Pete!” she cried out. She’d already gathered her first aid kit, and was busy pulling gloves on. “Okay, I need you to lie on your stomach,” she instructed. Pete did so carefully, feeling the pull of the knife in his back, his breathing shallow. “What _happened_?” she asked softly as she got everything that she needed ready. Pete was pretty sure she would have to cut his shirt open… It was a pity, Pete thought idly, he’d liked this shirt. He was glad that he wasn’t wearing his robes. He was glad that he hadn’t been wearing his overcoat, he might be able to hide it, create defensive wounds across his arms…

“Pete,” Rio said louder, breaking him out of his musings, and Pete made a thoughtful noise. “What happened?” she asked, and Pete found that he couldn’t answer.

Suddenly, the realization of what he was doing ran through him. Suddenly, he realized he was in the home of an interracial couple, and he had been knighted by the Klan. Suddenly…the thought of telling her what he was doing filled him with something so strong he couldn’t speak, and what wound up happening was he passed out.

When Pete came to there was no knife in his back and he’d been properly bandaged. The shirt had been ripped open and laid next to him, but that would be something he could hide. He’d dropped the jacket to the side when the man had cornered him, so it was something he could just put over his clothes. He was momentarily embarrassed at the fact that Rio had seen him half-naked, but it was hardly the first time, and it was obviously necessary in order for her to properly bandage the wound. Pete slowly pushed himself to his knees, feeling the burn of the stitches, but realizing as he twisted that he would be able to handle it pretty well. He’d had worse, and he could tell that Rio had done a good job.

“How long was I out?” Pete asked, and Rio jumped, her hands coming out to him.

“Pete, you have to lie down, you’re going to pull your stitches, you…”

“I have to go,” Pete denied, shaking his head. “Rio, I’m so sorry, I…I hate to run, but I have to go…” Rio caught his hand and turned his attention to her, her hand coming up to cradle his jaw.

“Pete, please,” she said, her eyes so desperate, so hurt. “Pete, you have to _stay_, you have to…you have to recover, you were _stabbed_. It was so lucky, you were so lucky, nothing critical was pierced, but you…”

“I can’t,” Pete denied, taking her hand in his and squeezing it, taking it away from his face. “Rio, I’m so sorry, I can’t. But thank you, thank you so much, I thought I was going to die, but I have to go. It’s literally a matter of life and death, and I might be in even more trouble if I can’t get there in time…”

Rio fought past her hold on him and cupped his face in her hands. “Pete,” she said, her voice firm. “If nothing else, please let me feed you. I don’t know how long it’s been since you had a full meal, but you need one. I can see it in your eyes. I just spent ten minutes making sure you were properly stitched up and you wouldn’t bleed out. Please, Pete, just give me ten more minutes to feed you.”

Pete hesitated, before finally giving a harsh nod. It would keep, he could…it would keep. Rio took him into the kitchen and sat him down at the table, going to the fridge and coming back with an assortment of what took him a moment to realize were pizzas.

“We had a pizza party last night before Miles went back to school for the last day of the week,” Rio explained. “He had forgotten something at home and came back last evening, so we figured we might as well make a night of it. You…you don’t keep kosher, correct?”

“I don’t,” Pete agreed heavily. He took the boxes from her and spent some time eating through the leftovers, losing himself in the sudden ability to _eat_. He didn’t bother heating them, and he didn’t really care. It had been too long, and Pete was too tired to really care about how warm or not warm it was. They tasted good, and they were filling, and that was all that really mattered.

When he finished, he was on the edge of uncomfortably full, but that was an edge he scraped up against often. The hard fact of it was, Pete wasn’t _used_ to being full. He wasn’t used to getting anywhere close to enough to eat. Anytime he did it was uncomfortable, but Pete didn’t have the capacity to care.

Rio came back, and Pete hadn’t even noticed her leave, but she came back holding his shirt, which he realized she had sewn together. The blood had also been washed out, and the shirt was damp, but clean. It was perfect. It meant he now had options. He carefully lifted his arms, and she pulled it onto him gently, recognizing the request for help, as Pete didn’t think he could lift his arms much higher. He _ached_.

Rio paused before letting go of him completely, her hands pausing on his hands and her thumb moving to where his spinnerets were covered. Pete made a sound, pulling back, the feeling sending a stab of agony up into his skull, and she let go. Rio’s eyebrows pinched as she looked at him, and then looked at where his spinnerets were.

“Undercover?” she asked him with a slight smile that didn’t reach her eyes, something worried and quiet in her gaze. Pete felt his body relax slightly, giving a slight nod. Rio nodded, too. “_Be more careful_,” she whispered, and held his hands tightly, her eyebrows pinched, the words heavier than Pete thought they could be, filled with something soft. Pete hesitated, before nodding, squeezing her hands back, and finally she let go.

Pete slowly pushed himself upright, and Rio took that moment to hug him.

It was a gentle hug, but firm, encircling him in such a way that he felt grounded, almost encased, but able to pull away if he needed to. Pete found himself holding her back without really thinking about it, and finally Rio backed away, holding his arms gently in her hands.

“Okay, Pete,” she said. “Good luck, please…be careful with those stitches. I cleaned it very well so it shouldn’t get infected, but you have to be careful. Please, if it starts to burn or…_anything_, come back to me, okay?”

Pete nodded. “I will, thank you…” Pete said, and backed out of her grip, but took a moment to squeeze her hands in his, before grabbing the knife and then opening a portal back to his world and tumbling back into the subway. Pete hesitated for a moment, trying to swallow back the bile he wanted to spit at the sudden wrench in pain, though the lack of anything wet or overly hot coming from his wound meant it likely had just pulled.

Pete took several deep breaths, looking at the dead body before him, before moving over to his jacket he had dropped and carefully, as gingerly as he could, he slid it on.

Once it was in place Pete looked at the knife, and with a grim frown, slashed it across his forearms. The sting of pain and the warmth of blood leaking out followed, and Pete dropped the knife, even as he bowed over the body, defensive blood splatter. Pete always wore gloves, there were no prints of his on the knife, and Rio had worn gloves as well. He took the knife and wrapped the man’s hand around it carefully, before moving himself into position where it looked like he had just managed to kick him back and away. The blood on the unknown man’s temple was still leaking, the subways warm enough that it wouldn’t congeal for a while yet.

Pete finished positioning everything just in time. He could hear the approaching guard, and he finally allowed the headache to really penetrate his skull, finally allowed himself to wallow in the pain he was in. Pete started trembling, throwing his arms up, over his face, feeling the wet hot blood trickle onto his face, and he gave a couple grunts and gasps of pain, hearing the approaching feet run faster. He kicked the ground in a way that simulated a body falling, the echoes helping to shift the sound, even as he cried out again.

“Help!” Pete called out. “Help, _please_!” his voice cracked, convincingly, sounding like he had been shouting for longer than he had, and finally two men wearing the robes of the Klan rushed in. They took in what supposedly happened, and immediately ran to Pete, calling out in recognition.

“Williams, Williams!” one of them called, reaching out. They dropped next to him, carefully taking his arms in their hands, avoiding where he had been cut, and pulling them gently away from his face, hushing him. The concern they were treating him with was almost enough to make him actually vomit.

“Son of a bitch,” the other said, looking at the man that Pete had killed. “Fuck! It’s Mike… I knew we shouldn’t have invited him. We shouldn’t have brought him into the Klan, he was too unstable. Dammit…” he hissed, and then turned back to Pete. Pete allowed the other man to cut away his sleeves in order to bare his forearms, revealing the cuts that Pete had made, the ones that looked very distinctively like defensive wounds. “Come on,” he said, and helped the other man pull him upright. “Up you get, Williams…I’m so fucking sorry. We should have been paying more attention to him,” he said. “We’ll get you help, Williams, it’s alright.”

“I killed him,” Pete moaned, trying to make his voice suitably broken up, cracking it. “I killed him, I just…I kicked his legs out from under him,” he managed, “he came at me with a knife, and I thought I was going to _die_…”

“It’s alright, Williams,” the man to his left hushed. “You’re okay, you won’t be in trouble. We’ll get everything sorted out. You were acting in self-defense, no one blames you. No one will know, it’s okay. We’ve got a deal with the police, we’ll be able to sweep it under the rug, and everything will be fine.”

Pete gave a terrible little sound, the other hushing him.

“It’s okay,” the one to his right said. “It’s always a shock after you kill the first one, but it gets easier after that. You didn’t do anything _wrong_, Williams, you acted just as you should have. We knew that he was coming at you sideways, but we didn’t realize it would lead to this. Fucker was jealous, he couldn’t take the fact that we chose someone else to get symbolically knighted for the rest of you. We know what happened with your dame, we know what it means to you to be here, of course we chose you. You represent everything that we’re about. As for Mike, well, don’t worry. We’ll deal with it. We knew he had your number; I just didn’t think it was that _big_ of a number. All we have to do is bandage you up, and then Mathews here will help you get home, you won’t have to worry about a damn thing. We take care of our own, Williams, it’s okay.”

Pete hated them more in that moment than he ever had. How _dare_ they be so kind to him. How _dare_ they treat him like he was one of them. How _dare_ they use their power to sweep things under the rug. How dare they, how dare they, _how dare they_. It made Pete sick. It made him want to scrub himself until he was raw, he’d never felt filthier, even after crawling through the sewers. Pete allowed himself to be led through the tunnels, various members of the Klan offering shock and horror, and _sympathy_, enough sympathy to make him choke on it, enough sympathy to make him tremble, the man on his right telling them to get rid of Mike’s body. They’d deal with Williams.

Pete was sat down in their medical bunk, the Klan doctor carefully bandaging his wounds after taking off his jacket, never once noticing that the skin on his wrists wasn’t real. None of them noticed his shirt, and when they eventually brought him a change of clothes, they turned their backs out of proper 1930s etiquette, allowing Pete to change without revealing his bandages, and the stab wound on his back. Pete hissed in pain as he slid it on, but it didn’t matter. Neither did pulling the jacket on so it hid his true thinness. It was important, so he did it. He also took his old clothes with him, holding them with a type of reverence that insinuated the fact that they were dear to him. None of them questioned it.

They knew his supposed history.

When Pete was finished, the man that had been on his left took him up from the tunnels. The word had apparently been spread that ‘Williams’ had been attacked, because he was treated to all manner of well-wishes and apologies. No one could believe it had happened, they all wished him a speedy recovery, and apologized for not paying more attention to Mike.

Pete hated all of them.

When he finally was able to collapse in the temporary headquarters that Stark had provided, Pete crashed, and he crashed _hard_. He didn’t bother removing the scarf he had rewrapped around his face, not even to make it so it wouldn’t tighten should he roll in his sleep. The place was bugged and he wasn’t willing to let it be seen.

He didn’t even remove the covers for his spinnerets. Pete knew he would regret it later, but for now he didn’t care.

* * *

Pete didn’t wake up until the dead of night, and that was to a fist being brought down towards his head. Pete jerked himself out of bed, rolling out of it, feeling the harsh tug and immediate wet heat of torn stitches, bringing his arms over his head and ignoring it in order to get into a proper position to fight. His toes scraped across the ground, allowing himself to slide until he stuck in place, his fingers pressing down onto the ground once he was sure he had enough distance.

He looked up to see Luke Cage staring at him, both fists held up, and a look of profound anger on his face.

“What the _fuck_, Spider?” he hissed at him, and Pete pressed himself down to the ground lower, his mind reeling. He didn’t understand what was happening. Why was he here? Didn’t Cage know that his very presence would throw the entire thing off course? Didn’t he know that he would expose him?

“Why are you here?” Pete asked, thoroughly confused, pulling the scarf further into position, loosening its hold on his neck. “You’ll blow my cover; you have to go!”

“Not until you explain to me why you…” Cage hesitated then, and Pete watched as his eyes widened, and then his expression changed in a way so subtle Pete couldn’t read it. “What the fuck happened to you?” he asked. Pete then came to the realization that there was a slowly growing puddle of black trickling down underneath him.

“Fuck,” Pete hissed. He immediately started taking off his shirt, revealing not just the bandages around his arms, but the bandages on his back. For a moment he was terrified at the fact that Cage would realize they weren’t proper white, but then he realized that they would likely be so saturated with black it wouldn’t matter. “Oh, fuck…” he repeated, falling to his knees in the puddle as his vision peppered with black spots.

He couldn’t black out; he couldn’t black out.

“Christ! What the fuck happened?” Cage asked, immediately moving around to his back so he could see what the blood was coming from, and then running off into the bathroom.

Pete hadn’t bothered to look through the house to see what was in it. He had been aware of the fact that it had been heavily bugged by Stark and he didn’t really think of the place as his. He hadn’t even really slept in it, even though he had his name on the deed temporarily. The knowledge that it was something that he would have to give back and something that was only given to him in order to keep a proper eye on him had ruined any possibility for him to enjoy it.

Apparently, however, Stark had included an extensive first aid kit, as when Cage ran back into the room, he was carrying the 1930s equivalent of Rio’s kit. He dropped it on the ground, taking a towel and throwing it on the ground before kneeling on it, keeping the blood off his pants, which was a smart thing to do when no one had the money to keep buying new clothes. Another towel was pressed onto Pete’s back and he gave a pained hiss. The sound of the window opening drew his attention, and he almost threw webbing at it, but the one sneaking in was Daredevil.

Fuck it.

Cage already blew his cover, might as well make it go up in a fucking fireball while they were at it. Why not bring Tony Stark into the mix? Hell, why not bring in the whole fucking neighborhood? Let them see the newest inductee into the KKK being helped by a fucking blind catholic and a negro. Pete was sure that would go over _swimmingly_.

“What happened?” Daredevil asked. “What’s going on?"

“The fucker’s bleeding, he got…shot or _stabbed_, or…”

“Stabbed,” Pete said. “Some…fucking bastard named Mike decided that the fact that they chose me to knight as a stand-in due to the fact I spread some goddamn sob story about my dame getting killed was a damn disgrace,” as Pete spoke he found that he couldn’t stop, the words trickling off his tongue like bile. He was so angry, he was so angry, and he was so tired, and there was blood pouring out of him.

Pete was so tired of bleeding.

“Also decided that he needed to fucking corner me and then stab me in the back,” he continued. “Tried to call me a traitor, but everyone else there thinks I’m the best fucking thing since…shit, I don’t know, what the fuck does the Klan think is fantastic? Fucking…fucking…” there were things that were popping into his brain, things he saw on the newspapers, things he heard them laughing about when he walked among them, but he wouldn’t say, things he _couldn’t_ say. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, but they think I’m the best thing ever, and they were all extremely down to get me help. One of them took me home, and so _fucking_ help me, if _either_ of you ruin this perfect opportunity I’ve been handed, you’ve got no one to blame but yourselves.”

Pete was aware in a far corner of his mind that wasn’t busy wrapped up in the burning pain, and his own ire, that he had lost way too much blood. It was probably why he wouldn’t shut up. His back was on fire, even as he felt it as the skin was being pulled closer together, and restitched, but not by Cage.

Pete was afraid for one instant that he would die again, that this would be like the Nazi who slit his throat. He remembered how that felt. He remembered the way blood poured down his front, he warm stickiness that gushed from him, the way he choked and gurgled on it, the pain, the _fear_…

And as much as Pete tried to forget it, he remembered the warmth as the Spider God that was attached to him through blood and soul and curse cradled him in the void, breathed life back into him, and sealed his throat. He felt it then, the warmth on his back, the pervasive feeling of something stopping the bleeding, sealing the wound, refusing to let him die.

_Not yet_, it said. _Not yet_.

_We’re having too much fun._

Pete had still lost a lot of blood, his head was still light, and he had two people in ‘his’ house that shouldn’t be there, but he wouldn’t die. Not yet.

It hadn’t taken enough from him yet.

Pete felt the hands on him leave very suddenly, the two of them backing away from him quickly, and Pete realized he should get up, should say something, but the words had bled out with his blood and he no longer had anything to say. Finally, Pete forced himself upright, backing away from them.

Their expressions were unreadable as they stared towards or at him. They probably didn’t want to be helping him. Probably couldn’t stand having his filthy blood on them. He couldn’t think of a reason, or anything to say, and frankly he didn’t want to waste time on it. The way they were looking at him made him feel too ashamed. Too _inhuman_, like an animal that was just waiting for the chance to attack, rather than wounded and utterly exhausted.

Pete knew he wasn’t human anymore. He knew it. He knew that he was a ticking time bomb. But he had never been more aware of it than in that moment.

“Get the fuck out,” he finally hissed, and, completely uncaring of the fact that blood would be seeping across the bedding, collapsed into the bed. Pete was past giving a fuck. The only thing he wanted was sleep. Cage and Daredevil both sent each other a silent glance, but before Pete could reinforce his command, he was dead asleep.

Pete woke once again a day later, also at night, to the feeling of a buzzing on his wrist. Pete groaned heavily, pushing himself up on his arms slightly, feeling distinctly groggy. He was sticky, and the bedding was covered in blood, but Pete didn’t much care. He moved to press the button to activate the goober, only for the low rumbling of his spidersense to start. The sudden realization that he was either visible to a bug or being watched hit him then, and he changed his movement to a check of the bandages on his arms.

Pete pulled them down slightly, revealing what would likely be the newest members of his scar collection, but the wounds would be sealed by now. He pulled the bandages off, and began to sit up properly, his head still light, but not at all as terrible as he had been feeling.

Pete stood slowly, carefully balancing himself and doing his best to not collapse, only to spot Cage and Daredevil both shifting from the place they had been sitting against the far wall. The radio was on low, he finally heard, and Pete came to realize that they had been waiting for him to wake up. He wondered how they would have avoided being spotted or otherwise noticed by now, but then he remembered that Stark had provided a housekeeper that would handle any visitors when Pete couldn’t. As it was, Pete was too exhausted to worry, and gave a brief groan. 

“I’m fucking _tired_ of you,” he said, glaring at them. “You come in trying to put a hole through my fucking head, why? The shit made you decide that you had to come into my bedroom and try and punch my daylights out? Why are you even here? Don’t you know what’s going to happen if they find you?”

“…You missed two check-ins,” Cage said, his voice heavy, frowning at him. “You’re white, you’re in a den of filth, I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, and you missed two check-ins. All that combined paints a pretty damnable picture, Spider,” Cage said, frowning down at him as he stood up and walked over to him. “You had a visitor from the Klan come to your house with you, but you didn’t have him enter the door, we weren’t able to hear him with any of our bugs, and you sent him on his way. No one saw the bandaging… It was all pretty fucking suspicious. Though I admit I had the wrong idea.”

Pete was quiet for a moment, before finally huffing out a sigh and waving a hand. “Alright. I get it. Are you satisfied now?”

“Not really,” Cage frowned. “I’d prefer it that our spy didn’t get stabbed.”

“What happened to your arms?” Daredevil asked.

“I cut them,” Pete answered easily. “I had to make it look defensive. If they came into a quiet corner to find a dead body and just me without injury, I don’t think it would have gone over well. He stabbed me in the back. I didn’t see the knife, and I wasn’t expecting it. Fucker missed,” Pete tapped over his heart in explanation.

Their expressions were dark and heavy at the explanation, but Peter had expected that. Pete knew that they had seen his back heal before them, had seen the flesh knit together after the Spider God did its work. Pete also knew what they were thinking:

Eventually they were going to have to kill him. If Pete couldn’t do it, and if his Spider family couldn’t do it, it would fall on them. How do you kill someone who can heal near instantaneously?

“My question is how was your back bandaged?” Daredevil asked, covering up his distress markedly well. “From what I could tell, it wasn’t in an easy place to reach. You tore your stitches.”

Pete didn’t understand how Daredevil ‘saw’ the world, but he figured Cage had given him a rundown of what had happened. Either way, it made him a bit uncomfortable. Particularly when those sightless eyes stared at him out of that mask.

“I thought you said you don’t have allies, Spider,” Cage pressed.

“I don’t have allies that are in the position to feed me,” Pete returned, glaring. “And I won’t give them up to you. They don’t deserve having you fuckers knocking on their door because you get a wild hair up your ass to interrogate them.”

“Alright,” Daredevil said, spreading his hands. “We won’t push you to reveal your allies. But we’re watching you, remember that.”

There was a long silence as Pete stared at both of them, taking in the wariness rolling off of them, and just feeling exhausted.

“I’m going to shower,” Pete said finally, giving up on any possibility to get them to realize that he really was on their side, at least now. They were too wary, he’d put them too on edge. Cage gave a vaguely agreeing hum, and Pete turned on his heel, collected the necessary change of clothes, and walked into the bathroom.

He had a feeling that as soon as he was done, they’d be gone. He almost hoped they’d be.

After removing the bandages around his wrists and taking in the way his wounds had sealed, he frowned slightly. Pete was pretty sure that normal humans didn’t heal that quickly, which meant he might have to do something about that.

All Pete knew was that he was not coming out of this unscarred.

Pete cranked the water in the rainbath as hot as it would go, stripped the rest of the way, and proceeded to clean himself as well as he could.

Pete wasn’t worried about the stab wound on his back. He knew that it had been healed. Pete peeled away the adhesive on his wrists, agony pulsing through his skull as the oddly flesh-like circles were peeled back, revealing spinnerets that were swollen and gray with trauma. Pete carefully washed them, allowing webbing to spool out, trying to clean the glands themselves. It was agonizing, and when Pete was finally finished his spinnerets were no longer the ash they had been but had lightened to a soft dusting. They were still slightly swollen.

After Pete had cleaned himself and dressed, throwing the scarf back around his face he took a few steps outside, only to find that Cage was waiting there for him. Pete braced himself, before turning to look at him.

“Spider,” he greeted.

“Cage,” Pete responded, sitting down across from him.

“I’m sorry,” Cage said suddenly, Pete blinking at him in surprise. “About earlier. I should have waited. I will still be watching you, but that was uncalled for.” Pete was silent for a moment, before giving a small nod. He wanted him to leave… Cage finally gave a slight nod in return, standing up. “Well, Spider. That’s all I wanted to say. I understand that you likely want some time to detox and…well, provided you do.”

“Dynamite,” Pete finally said tiredly.

“What?”

“I’ve seen people bring knives and guns, and even tommy guns against those monsters, but speaking as someone that has killed a fair few, you want dynamite,” Pete continued, his voice monotone. “If they have a hard-exterior shell in particular. Spiders are known to have an exoskeleton…meaning all the gooey bits are inside. They’re also hydraulically powered, meaning instead of using muscles it’s a fluid that they use for movement. You breach that exoskeleton anywhere and they’re likely to explode or deflate. Just…food for thought.”

Cage stared at him with wide eyes, before finally giving him a little grin. “I’ll be damned,” he hummed, and gave him a little nod. “Alright, Spider. I’ll remember that.”

“Before you go,” Pete started, frowning. “How many days would it take to heal something like this for a regular human?” he asked, holding his arms up. Cage stared at the cuts for a moment with a slight frown before finally giving a brief thoughtful hum.

“Ten to fourteen days,” he said. “Why?”

“I have to keep them open for that long,” Pete answered. Cage stared at him, that look on his face that was a mixture of horror and unease. Pete understood, in a way. He was strong, unusually fast, had silk, could climb on walls, and healed faster than most could blink. He was dangerous _now_. What would he be like later? As it was, Pete had given him all the reassurance that he could, and he stayed silent. It was up to Cage what he did with the information. Cage finally gave a brief nod, and moved towards the window, climbing out and onto the roofs in order to escape notice that way.

Pete went downstairs then, turning on lights as he went, not wanting to be in the dark. When he finally reached the kitchen, Pete was momentarily baffled to find that instead of the ice box that he had expected, there was one of the fancy refrigerators placed there. Pete stared at it for a minute, before finally going over to open it. The disappointment he felt was so strong Pete recognized it as an actual feeling.

Condiments. The entire thing was filled with condiments, and a loaf of bread that looked stale.

Who the fuck shopped like this? Who put bread in the fridge, for that matter, and why the hell would he have so many condiments but nothing to put it on? Was…was Stark expecting him to bring back his own meat? The fuck was he thinking? That Pete brought back his victims and spun them in webs and slowly drained them dry? Stark hadn’t given him permission to use the funds he had been given on food, and so Pete had been hesitant about doing so. He didn’t know if he would be expected to pay it back or not, and worse, Pete had no desire to use the money from someone that wanted his _corpse_. 

For all Pete knew Stark might expect using his money to constitute as paying Pete for it. After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed the bag of bread and a few of the condiments and began making what had to be the saddest layered sandwich in history.

The fact of the matter was, though, Pete couldn’t afford to be picky, and he ate the mess of flavors without real care. He only ate a quarter of the loaf, realizing that if he ate more than that it wouldn’t last as long, but due to the amount of blood he had lost he couldn’t afford to eat less. Particularly due to the fact that he was about to reopen his wounds. After he was finished he wiped off the table, replaced all the condiments he had been using, and headed back upstairs towards the first aid kit.

Pete sighed, pulling a knife out of where he hid it in his cuff, before taking his first aid kit into the bathroom and putting it on the counter. He disinfected the knife with actual alcohol for once, being careful to make sure that it was truly clean. Keeping his cuts light and steady, he ran through the stitches and into the flesh, being careful not to go too deep for fear of slicing through the glands in his arms in charge of producing his webbing…just deep enough that it would need stitches and put nothing else in danger. Not even of bleeding out.

When that was finished, Pete began stitching his way up his arms, using the technique he had shown Miles to thread the needle, and feeling a brief pang at the thought of him. The thought of his fellow spiders rose something deep in his chest up to the surface, and he found himself suddenly overcome with something so painful for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

Pete leaned against the sink, gripping it tightly, staring into the bloody water he had filled the sink with in order to wash the blood out easier, trying to suck in a few breaths. He hurt, he _hurt_, he just, he wanted to see them… Yet, at the same time, the thought of going to see them while he was doing _this_, while he was a part of _that group_ choked him, and Pete found himself kneeling before the sink, gripping the porcelain so tight he was afraid he would shatter it. Pete wasn’t sure how long he kneeled there, but he finally forced himself onto his feet, continued his stitches, and then drained the sink with a series of brusque detached movements.

Pete rewrapped his wounds with a combination of teeth and the opposing hand, went into his room, and performed a quick change of bedclothes before he finally collapsed on the bed, realizing more than anything else, that he no longer wanted to be conscious. He didn’t even want to run out as the Spider, everything _hurt_ too much. As Pete’s eyes drifted shut, he tried to think of what excuse he would give the Klan tomorrow, if he even needed to. He figured at some point they would send someone to check on him, regardless of the housekeeper’s stern warnings to leave him be to heal.

Before he had quite managed to fall asleep, Pete remembered that his goober had buzzed earlier, which had been what woke him up to begin with. Pete contemplated climbing out the window to see what the message had been, but after a moment of hesitation decided that that might alert the bugs, which would be an issue. After further thought, Pete began turning in the bed on the excuse of trying to get comfortable, his finger pressed to the goober’s menu option to see when his spidersense relaxed. After a brief period of time where he tossed and turned back and forth, Pete’s spidersense relaxed and he pressed the button to view the message.

To Pete’s surprise, the sender was Mr. Davis.

_Mr. Davis: Hello, Pete…I hear you gave my wife quite a scare. I hope that you’re doing much better and that you’re well on your way to healing, if not healed already, and I hope that your undercover work went off without a further hitch. I heard you had been interested in our television, so I’m including some of the manual information, as well as a blueprint Miles helped me find. I thought you might find it interesting. _

Pete scrolled down to view the documents, a feeling he didn’t know bubbling up within him as he stared at the way that everything connected, at what they contained. He was filled with an urge to take one apart and see how it all fit together. It was _fascinating_. For just a moment all thoughts of what he was doing fell away, and Pete lost himself in trailing his eyes across those blueprints, studying everything with a critical, if not untrained eye. Pete had never seen anything like it, and the fact that Mr. Davis had… Pete’s thoughts trailed off as exhaustion pulled him under, once again failing to respond with the thanks that he meant.

That Pete still couldn’t voice…

Pete fell asleep dreaming of circuits and wires and a desire deep in his soul to see his family again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take care of yourselves, yo. Feedback is appreciated, I'm not going to lie, especially on this one. It's heavy. I don't know how often I am going to be able to update it, I'm feeling a bit like I need to space writing it a bit. I hope you all have a wonderful week.


	4. The Final Countdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo~~~! What's up, what's up, back again with another update! This one got a bit tricky for me, actually! I was having a bit of trouble writing a specific part and it was...really pretty frustrating. With that said, this is probably the most....uplifting? Um...no, that's too positive, um. Fuck. Regardless it's one of the few that isn't completely crushing in this particular story?? It's actually got a bit of action and I think it's kind of fun. That said, it wouldn't be me without some 
> 
> Warnings:  
Self-harming behaviors are discussed and definitely used, Pete has some terrible coping mechanisms, guys, just...terrible.  
Vomiting...  
old-fashioned language, I still say I will remove the use of the term 'negro' if it is something peeps are squicked by. Once again this doesn't need to be historically accurate! I'm just using it for that reason, but god knows there's other things I won't touch with a ten foot pole, I am very happy to let this be another thing! 
> 
> Speaking of not historically accurate, there are references to streets, locations, and things whose histories have been either omitted, changed, or just made up entirely. That said, Sylvia's was a place and there's some cool websites that show off some old menus that...I actually can't find, and seeing as how it's 3:45 am I don't really want to search for that hard lol! 
> 
> Oh! Thought of something else, the fact that the Klan used silly names to make them be taken less seriously was brought up in I believe the source I posted the last chapter, or the one before...

Pete woke up with a shot, nearly jumping out of his skin, leaping up to press against the ceiling, flattening himself against it.

Pete was confused, mildly delirious, and then he realized that it was the _doorbell_ that had woken him when it was rung again. Pete had forgotten what that sounded like. They hadn’t gotten many guests, even when Pete had lived in a house, so it had completely slipped his mind. After a moment where Pete tried to reorient himself to what had happened and where he was, Pete dropped from the ceiling, straightened his clothes slightly to try and make it look like he hadn’t been sleeping in them, and hurriedly reapplied the prosthetic over his spinnerets again, mentally apologizing to them, and planning that the next time he would put the bandages on a little lower and not have to worry at all - and then he walked down the stairs. Pete held himself carefully, doing his best to not let his arms swing too much, or otherwise pull the skin.

Pete’s wounds were raw, but he had cleaned the knife before he cut, and he was pretty sure that it wasn’t due to infection.

Pete made it to the door to find Sylvester Wright standing there when he peered through the window to the side of the white-painted front door. After a moment of hesitation just behind the door where Wright couldn’t see him, he took a deep breath, he swung the door open and smiled at him in a way that was probably as tired as he felt. 

“Wright, hello,” Pete greeted.

“Sylvester, Williams, _Sylvester_, please, I’m sorry for the earliness of the hour, but I simply _had_ to see you… May I come in?” Wright looked him up and down and his eyebrows pinched together slightly in concern. “I have to say you look done in, so if you would prefer… I’ll say, too, that scarf…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Pete assured, stepping back, even as he told himself he’d never call him Sylvester. “Please come in, make yourself at home. Pardon my appearance, I’d been sleeping still. I lost quite a bit of blood and it’s been slow healing. Also, hence the scarf, it’s just been so frightfully cold it’s been a good way to minimize it.”

“I perfectly understand, that’s quite alright,” Wright assured immediately, his eyebrows pinching together. Pete gestured towards the sitting room and Wright led the way, before taking a seat in the overstuffed armchair by the fireplace, Pete sitting on its twin across from him.

Pete hadn’t even known there was a fireplace.

“Can I get you something?” Pete asked, only to remember the sorry state of the refrigerator and wince. “Actually, I’m sorry, I haven’t managed to do any grocery shopping and I don’t have anything that I can offer you. I haven’t wanted to leave the house.”

“Oh, I absolutely understand, there’s no worry, I…” Wright took a breath, his expression turning deeply apologetic. “I’m here to apologize,” Wright said. “I heard what happened to you because of Mike. I came to offer my sincerest condolences.”

Pete moved his arms in a way that drew attention to the bandages wrapped around them, Wright’s gaze tracking the movements with a very upset frown. Pete was _delighted_. If Wright was upset, then he felt _guilty_. If he felt guilty, Pete could think of several ways to try and play off of that. Maybe this day wouldn’t go so poorly after all.

“It’s alright,” Pete said. “Though if I had known _that_ would happen, I don’t know if I would have accepted the invitation to be knighted for the group.” He was careful to add a bit of a smile, as well as a touch of levity to his voice to make sure that Wright understood he was joking, and sure enough Wright laughed, smiling at him.

“Yes, I can see how that would be something that wouldn’t be very appreciated. I’m…sorry it happened to you, Williams,” he said, sobering. “I wouldn’t have let you be knighted for the group, either,” his voice was completely serious, and it made Pete uncomfortable. “We do not wish any harm upon our members at any time. Which reminds me, I came to tell you that if you have any trouble at all with any of the new recruits, with _anyone_ really, I need you to come to me. I’m your recruiter, after all, and I am in charge of your safety for the first few weeks before everything is properly settled, and you graduate into becoming a Cyclops.” His eyes were piercing, his mouth in a fine line. “I understand that a lot of our rituals may seem daunting, or even strange, but I swear they’re there for a purpose. Even the names we utilize, as odd as they are, have the _benefit_ of being odd. It’s hard to take a group seriously when they’re led by someone calling themselves the Grand _Wizard_ after all, and that are following all the strange rituals that we do.”

Pete was momentarily stricken. It _had_ been hard not to laugh once he heard the names, but he hadn’t expected that to be used as a _shield_. It felt like a punch to the gut, but Pete was quick to take his shock and immediately say, “I hadn’t even thought of that. That’s _clever_.”

“Yes, well,” Wright smiled, obviously preening. “We are of course helmed by the best and the brightest.”

“I see that,” Pete agreed with a nod.

“Now, you mentioned that you hadn’t been able to go for groceries, which is completely understood, would you like for me to bring you something?” Wright asked, looking at them. “I had been meaning to get here yesterday, but your housekeeper is a very fierce woman and wouldn’t let me in. She deserves a raise, I believe,” Wright said, smiling. “Though if she didn’t even do your shopping…”

“She does her job well,” Pete denied, shaking his head. “However, I don’t pay her for the groceries, and I wasn’t in any state to let her know that I was low before she left for home. I tend to do my shopping myself, I’m a bit picky with what I choose, and she knows this.” He hesitated, contemplating whether or not he would accept the offer, weighing the possibility of food with the time spent in the other’s company, as well as the lack of bugs should they go elsewhere. “I…I think I might take you up on that, if you don’t mind,” Pete said. “I can pay you, if you would…

“No, absolutely not,” Wright said, standing up. “This was our fault, a serious breach in etiquette, so this will be part of the way it is repaid. I’ll be back shortly.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Pete said, standing as well, and leading the man to the door. Wright smiled at him widely, before giving him a slight nod, and finally leaving.

Pete closed the door behind him, ignoring the ache of his arms, and finally returning to the sitting room. He sat down heavily. For a moment he was silent, unmoving, his thoughts a whirlwind, before his gaze slowly drifted over towards the fireplace.

Idly, he wondered if Stark had given him matches…

As soon as the thought hit him, he dismissed it, Pete finally standing up to see the rest of the kitchen. He at least better figure out where the plates and glasses were before Wright got back. It would be very suspicious if he didn’t know where everything was in his own damn house.

After a thorough search which turned up everything that Pete thought would be needed, there was a knock on the door. Pete walked over to let Wright in, revealing the man holding two armfuls of grocery bags, a wide grin on his mouth. Pete almost instinctively reached out to help, only to wince as his arms extended.

“No, no!” Wright said, ducking away. “None of that, you’re going to let me put everything away, and you’re going to sit down and _rest_.” Pete begrudgingly led the other man into the kitchen, sitting at the chair and watching as Wright began putting things away. He laughed aloud at the sight of what was in Pete’s fridge and gave a brief smile his way. “I see what you mean about being down to nothing. You’ll see that I have brought you plenty of options.”

Pete watched as Wright loaded the fridge with various vegetables, fruits, eggs, milk, and…oh. Oh.

That was pork. That was _bacon_.

Pete recognized disgust.

He recognized the slow creeping horror that ran up his spine as Wright took the bacon and put it on the counter, as well as four eggs, and turned around as he finally loaded the last of the fridge with a wide smile on his face. Pete searched for an excuse to not eat the meat, an intolerance, an _allergy_, but he couldn’t think of anything aside from a commandment and a pig named Peter Porker that had helped him learn what was happening, had told him he was alright for recycling his webbing in the way his body wanted, and who had stood up for him.

Pete thought he would be sick.

Something must have been visible on his face, because Wright hesitated.

“What’s wrong, Williams?” Wright asked, taking in his expression.

“I…” Pete hesitated, thrashing around for an excuse, and finally, he cleared his throat. “I actually don’t really like the smell of bacon,” Pete managed. “It fills the whole house, you know, and it doesn’t come out for a while.” It was something he had noticed. Robbie and his family had eaten bacon, though they had never done it in front of Pete, nor had they made any attempts to tell him he was crazy for not eating it, but Pete had always known when they made it. He also recognized it in the restaurants he went into in Harlem, the ones that weren’t specifically tailored to a kosher standard, which had been _fine_. Pete had never minded; Pete had only minded when others had attempted to force it on him. He hoped, dearly, so dearly… Wright appeared briefly surprised, before he smiled.

“Ah, that’s alright,” Wright said. “I’ll be taking it with me, then, there’s no issue at all.” He put the bacon back in the fridge but wrapped it in the brown paper bag for transportation. “Is beef okay? Steak and eggs?” he asked, pulling out another paper-wrapped meat.

“Yes,” Pete agreed. “Yes, that’s…that’s fine.”

“Good! That sounds better anyway, if you ask me. Where are your pans?”

Pete indicated the proper drawer and also the butter that Stark had also provided. Condiments and butter and bread… What an odd combination. Maybe he really had been expecting Pete to get takeout?

Wright began working away at the stove then, turning on the gas and lighting it with the…matches. Pete bit his nail as he waited, trying to avoid picking at the calloused scars on the tips of the fingers on his left hand. Pete had been trying so hard to avoid doing that. Trying to avoid the temptation to light a match and let it burn all the way down until the sting drove all thoughts from his head…

Made him forget that he wasn’t human, forget that he was hated, forget that he was a monster, a ticking timebomb with a god attached to him that wouldn’t let him die…

Pete didn’t _want_ to die, but he would never be thankful.

“So, as you may have guessed, I am also here to give you the rundown on what it is that’s been happening in the Klan since you missed a day of meetings,” Wright said, turning his head towards him as he carefully flipped the steaks. “It’s understandable, of course, so don’t take this as meaning I am trying to shame you because you missed the meeting, not at all… But I do think it’s best to keep you informed.” Wright sent a glance his way, before turning back to the frying pan. “It’s a pity that it happened so quickly, these first couple weeks are critical in training.”

“I’m sorry for any issue I may…”

“No, no! No apologies are necessary,” Wright waved off. “You certainly didn’t cut yourself.” Pete had to work at keeping a straight face. “We’ll think of something.” He cracked the eggs next to the steaks in the pan after they were a nice seared brown. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, “I forgot to ask how you liked your eggs, I prefer mine over easy is that alright?”

“It’s fine,” Pete agreed.

“Good, good…” Wright said, smiling. He hummed thoughtfully, before looking around for the plates, Pete indicated where they were and Wright gave a brief thanks, before plating everything. He sat down across from Pete, handing him his breakfast after bringing out the milk, and pouring two glasses, bringing the silverware a moment later. “So, to the Klan,” he said, holding his glass up, and Pete allowed himself to clink his glass to Wright’s.

“To the Klan,” Pete agreed, and after carefully feeling out with his senses, pulled his scarf down, and began working his way through the steak.

The only thing Pete was grateful for was the fact that the man obviously had no idea how to cook a decent steak. The egg was nice, however, and he put it on top of the steak itself, trying to add a bit of extra flavor. All the while, his spidersense buzzed in the back of his skull, a constant warning that grew more painful by the minutes. Pete closed his eyes against it, trying to get it to settle.

Pete was very aware of the fact that he was in danger, he absolutely didn’t need it reminding him at every single second.

“Are you alright, Williams?” Wright asked, and Pete snapped his eyes open.

“I’m so sorry,” Pete apologized, “I seem to be gaining a bit of a headache,” very true, “I think I might still be a bit tired.” Not as true.

“Oh, that’s quite alright,” Wright said immediately, holding his hands up. “I assure you that I will be out of your hair very soon. Though that does answer one of my questions.” He sighed. “Do you think you are well enough for a rundown of what has been happening?”

Pete had to pretend to think about it, forcing himself to not let the ‘yes’ on the tip of his tongue blurt out in a way that would be construed as odd, or too eager. Instead he put down his fork, and looked to his lap, pretending to do a quick mental stock. “Yes,” Pete finally said. “I think I’m well enough for that.”

“Excellent,” Wright sighed. “Well, let’s begin.”

* * *

Pete was drained.

The meeting had been brief, probably no more than thirty minutes in total, but it had discussed things that made him want to puke and had made it very difficult to continue his breakfast. Pete had been successful at making it seem as though his reluctance to eat was due to a bad headache, but by the end of it, Wright had been telling him to not go to the meeting tomorrow as well. He’d promised to give him more minutes, which was the good thing, but Pete was afraid that Wright would attempt to become _friends_ with him.

Pete would really rather die.

Wright had let himself out, apologizing profusely for taking so much of his time, but Pete hadn’t been able to make himself move yet. The dishes still needed to be done, Wright had left them for the housekeeper to do, but Pete wasn’t sure if or when she would arrive. There was a possibility that she wouldn’t interact with Pete at all.

Stark had to have told her who she would be dealing with, after all. He couldn’t imagine letting someone into a situation with something like him blind.

After a long moment, Pete finally dragged himself upright, leaning against the table. He needed to do something. The urge to be out and about chaffed at his skin, ate at his soul. He needed to surround himself with other people, with the city, with _something_… Pete was afraid, though, that if he went now it might look suspicious. He needed to talk to the others and get permission to move from this place, to let them know what he was doing.

The obvious answer came to him then, and Pete began looking for a potential bug.

Tony Stark had to be watching, he struck Pete as the sort that wouldn’t let something like this go under his notice, and so Pete began letting that skin-crawling feeling of being watched guide him to the corner of the room, and in particular a light fixture. Pete stared at it for a good long while, tilting his head this way and that, trying to see what exactly about it was setting his sense off, but then decided he didn’t care all that much. The feeling of being watched didn’t turn into a buzzing danger, so he figured that the Klan hadn’t managed to bug his house and it was simply Tony, so he gave a brief acknowledging nod.

“I’m going to head out as the Spider,” he said. “I need to work out some aggression. If I have to deal with anymore Klan without it, I might wind up breaking someone’s neck.”

After that word of warning, Pete wandered to the stairs, before suddenly a ringing was heard. Pete blinked, for a moment confused as to what the sound was, and then on a second ring he realized it was a phone. Pete turned, looking around for the source, his head tilting, and began trying to find the phone. Pete followed the sound to the second room on the second story, entering it at first to find nothing, and then he noticed that it was coming from the walls. After a moment of hesitation Pete moved towards the panel where it seemed to be the loudest and carefully pushed at it. To his surprise, the wall moved with his shove, spinning to reveal a ringing telephone. After a moment of hesitation where he stared in shock Pete took the headset from the cradle, bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?” Pete asked, not even bothering with asking who was calling, or giving his name. It somehow seemed irrelevant.

“_Williams_, hel~lo.” Pete had never been more annoyed at Stark’s voice over the line, nor also less surprised, but he took a breath, breathing the irritation in, and trying to let it out. “_That was quite a little show in the kitchen there, you did really well. Though I have to ask: how did you know where the bug was_?”

“It wasn’t visible,” Pete said, sighing the words out. “But I can sense when I’m being observed.”

“_Well, well…that’s an interesting trick, it’d be interesting to see how exactly that’s performed, but so long as you keep using it for things like that, then I suppose that’s fine_…” Stark said, humming. “_But in line with what you were proposing to do in order to burn off some excess aggression_…”

“Is this secure…?” Pete asked, a trickle of foreboding working its way down his spine.

“_What_?” Stark asked, surprise in his voice. “_Oh! Yes, yes, this is quite secure, this phone has a direct link to me. You don’t have to worry about anything being intercepted. We’re quite safe. However, we have been talking and we have decided that instead of regular phone communications, we will be expecting a more…personal report. You will report to us every two days. If you cannot make it in person, a call will do, but please make sure that you alert someone at least. After the last time it has become obvious that…well, we need to be a bit more careful.”_

“Alright,” Pete said. “Where am I meant to meet you?”

“Up to you, Harlem, Hell’s Kitchen, or my own personal tower,” Stark answered, his voice singsong and obviously amused. “_The only thing that matters is you report to one of us_.” Stark paused. “_I understand that sometimes you may be injured, so we will not react negatively if you miss a call immediately. You’ve…gained a bit of credibility as someone that hates the Klan. Not many are willing to tear open their own arms in order to keep up appearances_.”

“It needs to be done.”

“…_Yes, well. Nonetheless_.”

“Do I need to give a report tonight?”

“_No, I think we can safely call your report given yesterday. I also had a front row seat to this one. I can safely say that it was definitely…_enlightening.”

Pete felt a trickle of foreboding slide its way down the length of his spine. “In what way?” Pete found himself asking before he could stop himself.

“_Oh, not about where your loyalties lie, I understand…well, you have to lie. You’re a spy, I get it. The other two might not trust you, but I’m quite certain you’re trustworthy_.”

“Why is that?” Pete asked.

“_The others might be intimidated by what it means that you can heal yourself without issue_,” Stark said, his voice filled with a bravado that Pete could practically _taste_. “_But I know that if the time comes, I can more than handle anything you dish out. It allows me a certain…distance from the things you do that aren’t exactly…mmm, human?”_

“I see…”

“_Yes_,” Stark hummed. “_I’m not afraid of you, so I’m able to see what you do with a bit of…clarity. You’re deliberately carving yourself up in order to stay on their list. That’s not exactly what I would call traitorous_.”

“I appreciate your understanding,” Pete allowed himself to say hesitantly. “I’ll do my best to make sure that I keep up to your expectations.”

“_Good_,” Stark agreed brightly. “_Now, you have an _excellent_ time. Punch some Nazis for me, or some Klan if you feel like it. One of us will see you tomorrow_.”

“Understood.”

“_Have a good one, Spider_,” Stark laughed and hung up.

Pete thought he had never been more condescended to in his entire life. Pete hung up finally and took a step back from the phone, taking a few deep breaths in order to ground himself, and stop that buzzing irritation in the back of his skull. After he finally no longer felt like finding Stark and showing him _exactly_ what he had to be afraid of, Pete went to his room and found his costume, taking it into the bathroom with him, the only place he had felt that there wasn’t anyone watching his every move. Carefully stripping out of his clothes he put on his Spider uniform, brushing down the vest and adjusting his hat in the mirror out of novelty more than anything else. It had been a while since he actually got to look at himself in costume, and he did think he had done a good job.

There was evidence of past scrapes, of course, patch jobs that ranged in size from an inch to running across the length of his forehead, but they were minimal. Pete had worked very hard on keeping them hidden. Finally, he sighed, reflexively sticking his hat to his head, and leaving the bathroom. He went to the window and threw it open, pausing, feeling the rush of air from outside, that first warm breath of spring finally breaking through. After a moment to see if he would be noticed, to see if anyone was watching, Pete pulled off the prosthetics, massaging his wrists for a moment, before Pete leapt onto the roof, and out into the night.

The tugging on his wrists was ignored.

Pete didn’t know how long he had jumped and swung through the city, lost somewhere in the repetitiveness of the motion, but he somehow found himself overlooking his ‘office.’ After a moment of hesitation, he decided to see what had been left for him. Pete jumped to the sill and pressed there for a moment, looking in the window and trying to see if anyone was inside. Deciding there wasn’t, Pete shoved the window open and made his way into the room.

The large web in the center had been one of his first constructs, and it was massive. It had also, at least Pete thought, been partly responsible for him falling two stories after starving himself of webbing. Pete had considered consuming it multiple times, but after having seen how many slips of paper would appear in his web, he’d always reconsidered. There were so many it was almost ridiculous at times, more than he could really keep track of.

The city was big, and desperation was bigger.

Pete stepped through the strands easily before getting to the center and climbing up the webbing to the top right corner. As he climbed, he read, and the ones he thought he could help with immediately were plucked from the threads delicately.

A missing person there, a request for protection there… Some of them were asks that Pete would never be able to fulfill, asking for food, or money, but Pete had learned that some people had started using his web as something to grant wishes. There was a rumor going around that if you braved the Spiders’ web and were able to place a wish in its confines, and it was taken, your wish would be granted. Something about the possibility of danger and the fact that the Spider would eat whatever it found trying to place a piece paper.

Pete found those pieces of paper caused the worst type of burning in his soul, the kind that ate through him and made him feel powerless. It hurt in a way that he wasn’t used to, and he hated it. Pete wished he could do something for them but knew it was a fruitless venture.

The sound of the door creaking startled him out of his thoughts, and Pete went Very. Still.

The little girl that walked into his room couldn’t have been more than six, she was clutching a piece of paper in one bony fist, her gray skin ashen, and her eyes bright with sickness, her dress a stained patchwork that Pete recognized as coming from a potato sack. She was barefoot, her small feet leaving black footprints behind her. Pete’s own feet ached with familiarity.

Pete pressed closer to the wall, trying to avoid attracting her attention, only to have those gray eyes rise to meet him, the light from the outside catching off of his goggles and reflecting it back to her. 

Pete silently cursed, watching as the young girl stiffened, taking a single step back, her mouth falling open as though to scream, and he pressed himself tighter to the wall, holding his hands out so she could see he had nothing in them. In a way, that was almost hollow reassurance, Pete could pull her limb from limb as easily as he could shoot her, but he’d sooner cut off his own arms. As Pete watched she seemed to gather her courage, balling her hands into tighter fists and gritting her teeth, before she marched towards him, one bare foot in front of the other.

“Please,” she said, her voice a bright peal in this place of silence. “Please, can you…can you help me? I need…I need to find my papa, I don’t… I don’t know where to look, and I can’t…” she trailed off, her lower lip quivering, and those eyes were bright with something else then. Pete instinctively clambered down the webbing, only to freeze when she took a step back, gasping in fright. Pete waited until she once again balled her fists and straightened up fully, holding up her slip of paper. Pete carefully reached out and plucked it from her fingers, careful to not touch her. She pulled her hand back as though she had been burned, watching him with wide and fearful eyes.

Pete kept himself at her level, slowly opening the paper so he could see what had been written there. In a messy scrawl, probably done with the last nub of a pencil if Pete could read those scratches right around the graphite: ‘Plese hlp find my papa.’

“Where was your papa last?” Pete asked, keeping his voice low and slow, trying not to unnerve her. “Do you know what he was doing?

“Working,” she said, keeping her little back squared, staring at him right in the goggles. “He works at the…at the…” she hesitated, obviously thinking, “docks!”

“Do you know which dock?” Pete asked, and after a long moment she shook her head, sending her dingy curls flying. “How long has he been gone?”

“Two days,” she said, holding up the necessary fingers to show him, and that pit that had been steadily growing in his stomach grew deeper. “Mama doesn’t know where he is.”

Pete leaned back on his heels. “Where is your mama?”

“She went to the cops.” Her voice was a quiet thing, the way she said ‘cops’ spoken like a slur. “Papa said cops don’t work, you have to go to someone else. I’ve seen you… They say that you’re helping us.”

Pete was quiet for a moment. “Do you live around here?”

She pointed in the direction of the nearest apartment buildings that were still inhabited, and Pete felt a rush of relief. She hadn’t come from Harlem then, that was good. Though perhaps her family should move there, Pete wasn’t sure how safe it was on the outskirts, away from the safety that could be found in numbers. He might have to see about doing something about that…maybe Cage would be willing to help. Though Pete suspected the reason they were living where they were had to do with her father’s work. While there were docks off Harlem, they didn’t pay as well, and that money wasn’t much anyway…

If Pete could find him, then it wouldn’t matter, but first he had a little girl to return to her mother.

“I promise I’ll look for your papa, but I have questions to ask your mama, first,” Pete started, and stood up.

She took a step back, her eyes widening in fright. “Are you going to eat me now?” she asked, her voice so quiet, and Pete felt a bit as though he had been punched, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp exhalation.

“No,” he finally managed. “I’m going to take you home.” He reached out towards her carefully. 

“I thought you ate the people you caught here,” she whispered, her eyes so wide.

“No,” Pete disagreed, feeling that familiar burning in his chest, an aching in his throat. “I don’t eat people, least of all little girls.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, and to Pete’s surprise, she put her hands on her hips.

“Cross my heart,” Pete said, doing so instinctively as it had helped him with other children in the past.

“My mama _lied_ to me,” she whispered, and Pete had to bite back what felt like a laugh.

“I’m sorry about that,” Pete said, “but I promise I won’t eat you. Will you come with me now?”

She hesitated, before giving a slight nod. “Okay.”

“Thank you, what’s your name?”

“Milly!” she said, a bright chirp with an equally bright smile. “And you’re the Spider.”

“Yes,” Pete said, placing a hand on his heart and giving her a slight bow. “At your service, now please, let me take you home…” he held his hand out, and after a moment she reached out, taking his hand. He pulled her into a piggyback, waited until she was squeezing him tightly, and went back to the open window. After a moment he climbed out, perching on the sill once again, before leaping into the open air. He shot a web, swinging over towards the apartment she had indicated, the little girl letting out a loud whoop of surprise that soon turned to something like delight. He kept her stuck to him, the last thing he wanted was for Milly to fall to her death below.

When they finally reached the apartment she guided him to, it was in a quiet uproar. It was still too close to the attack to cause the curfew to lower, but there was a woman standing before the entrance, her face in her hands, that obvious malnutrition look to her, looking around frantically. Her hair was straightened and pulled tight to her skull, heavy with product. The dress she was wearing was mended, but well pressed, the hat on her head plain but fashionably tacked on, and as Pete looked her over habitually, he decided that she had likely been trying to talk to the coppers. The pressure to look whiter was always higher when dealing with them if you were going to get anything from them. There were others with her, all of them looking for the girl that Pete had found, Pete thought, given the way that they were looking low, and as he got closer, he could hear them yelling her name.

They were a motley bunch, mostly negro, though there were a few that he was uncertain of, a wild mix of accents, but the vast majority were speaking in the brusque, vowel-filled singsong of Brooklyn. The vast majority of them were decently dressed, and all of them wearing shoes, giving Pete the idea that Milly had simply marched out of her door at the earliest opportunity, sneaking by her mother in her desperation to find someone that could help. Pete wasn’t sure how he felt about that realization. He wasn’t sure what on earth they could have said that would have driven her to him, given the tales that he knew that the other children told, and her understanding that he had been going to _eat_ her.

Milly must have been absolutely scared out of her mind in order for her to seek him out. For the first time, Pete had a moment to be grateful that her first reaction was not to make a Deal, but instead to go to him.

Pete flipped to land on a lamppost above them, sticking a web strand to Milly’s back, and telling her to tuck as tight as she could.

Milly followed instructions, calling out for her mama as she was lowered down. The cries of relief were stifled at the sight of him, all of them freezing, taking steps back, fright visible on all their faces.

“Mama, he didn’t eat me! You _lied_!” Milly cried out, and her mama ran up to her, taking her up in her arms, too sick with relief to care about the web on her back. She spun Milly around, Pete releasing his webbing before it could tangle the both of them.

“Your husband,” Pete said, drawing her attention. “I’m sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but time is critical. Your husband, where did you last see him, what’s his name, do you have a picture? What did the coppers say?”

The woman straightened, wiping her eyes carefully, before looking up at him, still holding her daughter to her chest. Milly pressed her face against her mama’s neck, all of the tension that Pete had caused her leaking from her body.

“My husband’s name is Errol,” she said, and her accent wasn’t the singsong of Brooklyn but the subtler nasal of Queens. “I…I showed this picture to the police.” She held it up, and Pete carefully webbed it from her fingers, bringing it close so he could see it. She had flinched at the initial shot of webbing, but he could tell from her face she was grateful he hadn’t gotten close. “They told me that my husband was probably in a drunk tank somewhere, or with…” she shot a look to Milly and flashed him a significant look. Pete straightened to let her know he got it. “My husband would never, he…” she sniffed, a tear running down her face, smudging the kohl around her eye. “He would _never_. He went to Carl’s sometimes, but he’d always call me first. He _loves_ me.”

“I believe you. I’ll do my best to find him.”

“You found them on Ellis,” she said, her eyes so wide, so wet, and that burning in his chest was suddenly sharper, deeper, the thing that he was trying to avoid thinking about brought front and center. The way the rest of them stared up at him, the ones that had gathered around the mother and child that were missing a husband and father, protective, assuring, they all spoke of that night, too. Pete found his head lowering, for once not trying to catalogue all the faces that looked up at him.

He hoped that it wouldn’t come back to bite him.

“I’ll do my best,” he repeated. “It might not be safe to be here anymore. The Klan is moving in. If you can manage, it might be good to move to Harlem. There’s more safety in numbers.”

“Unless they set us all ablaze,” another man spat out, and his voice was that Brooklyn singsong yet again, anger visible in his expression, his hair hidden by an oversized hat.

“They won’t,” Pete said easily, lowering his voice, grating it over the vowels. “Consider it the answer to a wish.” Pete watched the shock on their faces, the realization, and then he leapt, swinging to the rooftops, and continuing his way to the pier on foot. He’d swung too much and he didn’t want to use up all his reserves that he’d built up due to breakfast. Running was monotonous and repetitive, jumping from place to place an almost meditation, something that got rid of the thought.

Pete hesitated for a moment overlooking the pier, watching the men work, listening to the chatter.

Heightened senses were sometimes a boon, and this was definitely one of those times. As he listened, Pete became steadily aware that Errol was not the only man that had gone missing. A good portion of the dock workers were talking about the fact that a few of them had gone missing, at least five. There was worry in their voices, a few of them obviously aware of what had gone on with the Klan recently. Something that surprised Pete was the number of white men that were offering to walk their colleagues’ home, ones that would be otherwise targeted, be they Jew, Negro, Catholic, Asian, or Irish.

Pete wondered how many were genuine.

Pete hummed thoughtfully, looking for someone to interrogate further, apart from the rest, and finally locked eyes with a man standing a short distance away, having a smoke break. Pete tilted his head, considering, taking in the wiry build and the way that he kept flashing his eyes from one side to the other, a pinched and wary look on his face, and finally began working his way to him, jumping from light to light, and building to building, before waiting, crouched right above him on the building he was leaning on. Pete took a breath, and finally fell forward, pressing his hand against the other’s mouth before he could scream, pressing him against the wall, and catching his cigarette with his other hand.

The man’s black eyes were wide as could be, his breath frantic and warm against his palm, even through his glove, his fingers scrabbling at the wall, trying to run, or trying to scream, beads of sweat welling up on his face. Pete held his cigarette out to him. The man hesitated, looking from him to the cigarette, and then back, and finally took it from him in trembling fingers. Once his hand was free, Pete pulled the photograph out of his pocket carefully, holding it out to the man. The recognition and realization in his face was obvious then, and Pete felt him relax, taking deeper, but much slower breaths, and finally he gave a brief nod. Pete let go carefully.

“_God_, Spider…” the man breathed out, his voice trembling, fear visible in his expression. “You scared the Devil out of me, I…” he took a breath, running his hands over his face carefully, and his accent was the rapid-fire brusqueness of Manhattan, and Pete was once again mildly amazed at the way the Great Depression had forced so many people away from their homes in search of a job. The man finally brought the cigarette to his mouth and took a long, desperate drag. Fortifying, probably.

Pete watched, waited, and finally, when he was sure that the man was calm enough not to scream,

“Do you know what happened to the missing men?” Pete asked.

“They all went to Carl’s,” he said, taking off his hat and running a hand through his tightly curled hair, staring at Pete with wide eyes all the while, as though if he blinked Pete would attack. “Group of them, four people, three of them don’t live in the area but they’re good friends…came for the money, it’s a good paying job if you can get in…”

“No one’s heard from them since?”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “We asked around, no one’s seen anything.”

“Do you suspect anyone of having a grudge?”

“Against _them_? No, they’re good family men, no one begrudged them anything.”

“Did you get any new workers?”

The man went silent in a way that was telltale. Pete tilted his head at him.

“_They’re all _white,” the man hissed, fear in his voice. “_They’re all white and I think they’re coming to get us, Lord help me_… We can’t _go_ anywhere else. There’s not enough room, and I… I need this _job_. My baby _needs_ me to have this job, and I can’t…”

“We’re working on it.”

“You’re going to find them, right? Like you did the people on Ellis?”

Pete once again closed his eyes against the word, his head bowing. “I’m going to do what I can.”

“Alright,” he said. “Alright. _Please_…”

Pete was gone before he could finish. He couldn’t stand it anymore, couldn’t let that word enter his brain.

Pete made his way to Carl’s with the single-minded detachment of someone doing their best to not think of anything at all. It wasn’t working. Pete remembered that day and revisited it often in his nightmares, seeing that along with the spiders. He remembered the knives, the frightened faces, the _desperation_… Pete remembered the holes punched through skulls, the blank faces, the constant tears…the knowledge that they’d never be right again.

Pete had never wanted to kill another man more than _him_. The Vulture wasn’t a man, and neither was the Goblin. But _that man_ had destroyed good people, ripped them from Pete’s life in a way that he had never encountered, people that he could see, he could touch, he could even talk to, but would never be the same again. Would never recognize _him_ again, would never recognize their families, their wives, their husbands, their _children_…

Pete had tried to give his soul for them, tried to bring them back to coherence, but it hadn’t accepted, instead laughing at him, mocking him… Pete had come back to himself and immediately thrown up, and hadn’t been able to stop, his body trembling, weak, and finally he found himself lying in a pool of his own vomit, unable to move.

The one thing that Pete regretted more than anything was the fact that he hadn’t killed Octavius.

If he ever got the chance to, Pete would…_correct_ the oversight.

Pete closed his eyes against the memories, bottling them up tight, and finally alighted by Carl’s on a nearby streetlight.

Carl’s was a diner that doubled as a speakeasy if you knew the code and knew the proper place, the way to knock. Pete had done his best to make sure that he was well aware of all of the codes, and all of the spots after the first regrettable attempt. Some of them deserved a royal welcome with a Chicago typewriter and a hidden wide grin, but Carl’s was a family bar, and it wouldn’t do to shoot up a locale in a way that might harm an innocent child.

Pete made his way over to the cellar that he knew concealed the speakeasy of Carl’s and rapped on it in the stop-start pattern he had memorized. The door swung open a few beats later, an exceedingly lanky Irish woman with violently white hair up in a bun answering the door. Her face turned a very dark gray at the sight of him, before she lifted up the pistol that she had hidden behind the doorframe, bringing it to bear almost faster than he could blink, but Pete held up his picture, showing the man he was looking for. Her eyes widened with recognition, losing the sharp intensity that they had had a moment before as they focused on that picture, and then back to him, back to the picture, and finally…

“Come in, hurry, they’re watching,” she hissed, Irish brogue very heavy on her tongue, and Pete did so. He kept his distance from her, scuttling to the ceiling to perch in the corner, overlooking the open floorplan of Carl’s basement.

There was a vat in the corner of the room, disguised as the boiler for the rest of the floor above. Pete could hear the bubbling within, though, he knew what it was. There were a few chairs and tables, the brewery something utilized mainly by close friends, or family. It wasn’t anything like the Black Cat, or some of the others he had seen, the clientele predominantly as hated as the Irish that ran it. The woman watched him with leery eyes, but she didn’t raise her pistol again, though it never left her hand.

The Irish woman was part of the disguise of this place, dressed in the uniform of a waitress, all she needed to tell the coppers that might think to raid the place is that she was on her break. It was a simple set up, but Pete had seen how effective it was. Aside from that, the woman was a crack shot.

Pete had seen that, too.

“I’m looking for Errol, and the other men that were taken two days ago,” Pete said. “Do you know what happened to them?”

The woman released a heavy puff of air, raising a long limb to brush off some of the hair that had fallen into her face from her bun. “I didn’t see it happen,” she denied, shaking her head. “I heard a call, a shout, what sounded like a gunshot, and then I heard no more. By the time I made it to the upper landing, they had gone, dragged off, I’d wager. I found a hat,” she indicated it placed on the bedraggled coatrack by the door, “but that was it. There was blood on the brim.”

That did not bode well at all.

“Has his wife, Lois, sent you?” she asked, eyeing him.

“His daughter, but yes,” Pete agreed, filing away the name. “I need to find them quickly. Did you hear anything else?”

“The only reason I heard what I did is that there was a lull in activity above,” she denied, shaking her head, and sure enough the sound of families laughing and eating above their heads was obvious, Carl’s lucky enough to be close enough to the richer localities that it could stay in business, and even thrive, even with the bias. Pete wondered how long it would last. Regardless, the sound would drown out much of the sounds from outside, particularly for the ones that didn’t have his enhanced senses.

“Did they have anyone that hated them?” Pete asked, “anyone that would have counted them as their enemies?”

The woman scoffed, rolling her eyes heavily. “You should know the ones that see us as an enemy,” she said, her eyes dark as they focused on him. “It’s no secret that the ones that took their jobs were white.” The woman laughed; the sound jagged. “They look at me and call me something else, when I’m fairer than they,” she spat. “That said, I’d rather be on this side than theirs,” her eyes were fiery, her mouth in a fine line. “Are you working on sending them back where they came from?”

“Sending them back to hell,” Pete returned, and the woman barked another laugh, this one amused.

“I’m down with that, Spider,” she said, her eyes darkly pensive. “Did you know that I left a note in your web one?” she asked, and she had put the gun down.

Pete tilted his head at her, prompting. “Many do,” he said, adding that soft nudge.

She laughed, “they do,” she agreed, frowning at him. “I asked for security. For my husband to come home safe every night. For my children to grow up happy.” Her eyes bored into his goggles, seeking out his own. “So far it’s all come true. I don’t know whether or not your web actually grants wishes, but I appreciate it enough that I won’t threaten you if you come here again. If you need a drink at any time, come back to me, and I’ll give you something. Food as well, it wouldn’t do to have you deciding to feast on human flesh when I could give you something better.” Her chin raised up. “Now get out of here before I fetch my broom and shoo you out,” she threatened, and Pete was suddenly struck with a jolt of amusement, as well as baffled gratefulness, “I told you all I know.”

Pete was willing to let that be the last word, and crawled back out of the basement, heading up the wall and to the roof. He hadn’t smelled blood, and Carl’s basement was empty enough that there would have been signs of a struggle from where he was.

Pete stood on the edge of the roof, thinking, but the more that he considered the more frustrated he got.

Pete was pretty sure that he knew where he could get answers. He also knew that it was the last place he wanted to go, particularly now. The Klan would know that he was meant to be on leave. They would know that he was hurt, and they would not be expecting for him to be back for another day at the least. For him to suddenly appear before any of them would be immediately suspicious, and worse, might blow his cover entirely, particularly if he came back to ask about a few negros.

Pete closed his eyes, trying to plan how he could ask questions and not draw suspicions, but perhaps… Perhaps the thing to do was to draw those suspicions.

Pete had noticed a certain amount of smug satisfaction that resonated from the Klan members. There was no other way they could look at every other race and claim that they were better than everyone else. It was likely, therefore, that they would be extremely easily baited, and if there was one thing that Pete knew how to do, it was bait people. Perhaps…he ought to pay the doctor a visit.

Maybe he could come across someone that knew something interesting.

* * *

Pete entered Klan territory wearing his robes over his uniform, minus the trench coat of course. While the rest of his uniform could easily pass as daywear, the trench coat on top of everything else was just enough to get people to start paying more notice.

A few of the goons had even started making reference to it when they talked about him.

Instead, Pete had worn an overcoat overtop of it. It was slightly warm, but it was better than being cold, and Pete was frequently cold. It also would make it something that wasn’t as immediately noticeable. Pete made his way to the doctor, planning on letting his stitches get a once over so if anyone noticed, or asked, he’d have an alibi. He’d discreetly popped a couple of them and replaced the prosthetics, already having informed his temporary housekeeper from a very safe distance that he’d popped his stitches it attempting to move the desk in order to get something he had dropped. He’d discussed it with her, and they’d agreed that an important document like his will, or a letter from his supposedly lost lover would both rank high enough that it would make sense why he had attempted to retrieve it. He thought he’d go with the letter, drive that angle home more.

His housekeeper was a rather sturdy woman, the kind that while she did not want to be near him, was quite willing to talk to him from a safe distance, and had even volunteered for the position, which was something that Pete had been surprised by. Pete was less surprised when he learned that she had a son that Pete had saved and so felt a bit as though she owed him. Her name was Ruth, and she was quite apologetic for the fact that she hadn’t thought to look to see if there had been a need for groceries. Pete had told her it was no issue, and Ruth had accepted that quietly.

Pete had rather liked her. He didn’t think that it was mutual, but that was fine,

Pete worked his way through the underground, his head down, and his hands around his wrists. There was blood rising up through the gauze he’d wrapped around it, which was good. He was lucky that the Klan doctor was a lot closer than the one that was by his house.

When he eventually arrived, the doctor cussed him out vigorously, telling him that he needed to take better care, and that he understood his attachment, but it had been a stupid decision. Pete agreed, and allowed the man to dress the wounds, wrapping fresh gauze around the stitches after he reclosed them.

“Now, Williams, you absolutely must take more care of yourself!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, ducking his head, allowing himself to display that necessary bit of regret.

“Ah, it’s alright,” the man finally said, sighing, running a hand over his balding scalp, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his sharp nose. “Just be more careful. You can’t afford to keep hurting yourself like this, the scar will be bad enough as it is, there is no reason to keep making it worse.”

“You’re right,” Pete agreed. “I’ll avoid any heavy lifting from now on.”

“Good, now get out of here, I have to run inventory,” he said, waving him on.

“Yes, sir,” Pete said, and left. As Pete walked out, he kept an eye out for the one man that Pete had paid the most attention to in the new recruits. He’d had that _look_ about him, a kind of feral edge that was easy to exploit, and Pete had overheard that he was going to be assigned to security, likely for his size and the breadth of his shoulder.

Finally, Pete spotted him, and carefully began approaching him. The man caught his eye, and a grin spread across his face, though there was still that edge. This was a man that wanted to advance through the ranks.

This was a man that would be stupid enough to try any tactic to get ahead, and Pete was about to give him one.

“Williams,” the man said, his voice deep, holding the Brooklyn singsong. “Nice to see you, I heard what happened to you, I’m sorry. That’s rotten luck. It was my job to make sure you wouldn’t come to harm and I failed you."

“That’s alright, though I’m afraid to admit I can’t seem to recall your name,” Pete said, once again bringing his own fake accent into play.

“Richards,” Richards introduced, smiling at him, “you likely wouldn’t have heard it. The only reason I know _you_ is because we were drilled on our negligence due to what happened to you. Were you hear for a checkup?”

“Well, that seems rather unpleasant, I’m sorry to be any trouble, and yes. I wound up bungling my stitches earlier,” Pete held up his wrists to show the fresh bandaging, Richards visibly gentling at the sight of the white gauze, his shoulders relaxing. “I had to come and get it fixed before it got worse, and you’re closer than the doctor. But I really am sorry to be any trouble to you, particularly so early…”

“No, no,” Richards denied, and the smile had warmed rather significantly, sighing heavily. “I’m sorry to hear about your stitches, though I’m glad that you were able to get here before it got worse…” “In the end, it really is us who owe you an apology…”

“Well,” Pete hummed. “If you insist on apologizing, the least you could do is buy me a drink…” he raised a teasing eyebrow, twisting his lips into a grin.

Richards laughed, before giving him his own grin, and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take you up on that,” Richards said. Pete let Richards lead the way, walking next to him as the man took him deeper into the city, their robes removed before they left the underground. Pete smoothed out his overcoat, checking the pockets for his mask and the goggles to make sure they were still hidden. Richards hailed them a cab, Pete mildly surprised due to the number of speakeasies that were secreted around them, but Richards had a look on his face that drove Pete to simply take a seat without question.

Pete had to force himself to relax when Richards’ asked the cabbie to take them to Sylvia’s in Harlem. Richards seemed to catch Pete’s surprise, grinning at him with relish. “It’s good to know the enemy, don’t you think, Williams?” he asked him, amusement in his voice.

“I would suppose,” Pete agreed, an eyebrow rising. “But is it safe?”

Richards laughed, “those” term-that-Pete-didn’t-care-to-pay-attention-to, “don’t know a damn thing. I’ve been eating amongst them for years and they haven’t said a damn thing. It’s good to be amongst them so you can learn how to talk like them. Schmooze a little, get close…and then do what you can to remind them that they’re where they need to be. Right under our heel.” Richards laughed and Pete had to force himself to laugh with him. Richards didn’t seem to notice, and Pete was grateful.

When they finally pulled up to Sylvia’s Pete had to keep his expression level. This was another location that he had frequented with Robbie, his older friend helping show him the ropes of the district and introducing him to all of his friends, making Pete feel comfortable. Sylvia’s had been one of their favorites, and he knew the owners personally. For once, Pete wasn’t sure whether he hoped for no recognition or recognition on their faces. He wasn’t sure which would hurt more.

Sylvia’s was primarily a soul food joint, but one with that extra ‘if you knew where to look’ adage attached to it. Pete made sure to sit with his back to the rest of the room, knowing that he would have to remove his scarf in order to eat, or drink what Richards’ ordered for him. They ordered, but before their drinks arrived, Pete got up with an excuse to use the facilities, Richards waving him away with a laugh.

Pete readjusted his scarf and walked back to the restroom and…the kitchen adjacent to it. Pete hesitated, feeling his sense roll as he was watched, and then edged off as it faded, and slipped into the kitchen.

He was unsurprised when Tim, the busboy that had worked there since Pete was eleven, the wide-set negro with a bristly mustache and eyes that usually squinted in a grin when they saw him instead squinted with rage as he turned to him with a brief cuss. “You can’t be back here!” he said, “if you have a problem with the food, you’ll have to take it up with the front, but…”

“You know who I am,” Pete interrupted, pulling his mask up from his pocket just enough for it to be visible, lowering his head into the scarf at the same time, and the rest of the kitchen stilled, turning to look at him, look at that _mask_. He watched the recognition spread, and it hurt as much as he had been afraid of, because the look wasn’t of the joy that Pete had partially imagined, the shouts of his name, the happiness and relief in their faces as they saw the kid that had been gone for over a year back in their midst…

Their reaction was _fear_.

“_Spider_,” Tim hissed, he and the other men in the kitchen the ones that had been in the club Cage had brought him to that fateful day stirred with fear and realization. The rest of the men that were there were ones that Pete knew and trusted. They wouldn’t crack, and he could see the realization fighting with resolve on their faces. “What are you…does that mean the man that came with you…?”

“He’s Klan,” Pete affirmed.

“Son of a bitch,” Tim cussed, sending a furtive glance towards the door as though he could see through it. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“_He_ brought me,” Pete answered, frowning. “He has information I need. If a distraction can be caused…I need him alone.”

There was a quiet laugh from the back, Pete’s attention drifting towards it and finding the Head Chef, a man that had owned the restaurant since before he was born, a man named Isaiah that had named the place after his wife that he loved dearly, and always slipped Pete and Robbie treats with a grin and a wink. The way he was looking at him held none of the usual warmth, replaced by a grim wariness, as well as amusement. “Well, if you’re looking for something to happen to the man, that can certainly be arranged. We can certainly start something.” He leaned forward; his expression almost vicious. “Though I’m guessing you’ll be wanting whatever you order raw…” that expression turned wary.

“No, actually,” Pete responded, shaking his head. “I’m…actually not able to eat anything raw. It’ll likely make me sick. Though…I didn’t actually order anything, I wasn’t planning for this to be a long stay.”

“I’ll be fucking damned,” another cook hissed, Montgomery, wicked humor and a wandering eye, staring at him with wide eyes. “I thought…_we_ all thought…?”

“No,” Pete reiterated, something throbbing in his chest at the realization that maybe they weren’t trying to slight him, or put him in his place, but were actually trying to _accommodate_ him. “I can’t eat it,” Pete said, shaking his head.

“Well, _fuck_, I’ll be spreading the word, I think…” Tim said, his mouth pulled into a fine line. “What’s your preference?”

“I’m going to be honest and say that I like knowing it’s dead,” Pete responded, shaking his head. 

There was a surprised laugh, “Alright, I can do that,” Isaiah promised. “Whatever you do, though, Spider, don’t touch anything that we give _him_. Though…maybe we ought to give you the same treatment…” Isaiah frowned. “If we show preference…”

“But…”

“You might not have ordered anything, Spider, but Richards definitely did.”

“…What?”

“About the most expensive thing we have. I think he’s trying to show off.”

Pete tilted his head. “To what end…?”

“Who knows. I can’t tell you what these people are thinking, only that they’ve got money and they’re willing to spend it.” Isaiah shrugged. “Now tell me, what’s the plan with him?”

“Richards isn’t making it through the night,” Pete finally answered. “I need information that if I ask for, he will absolutely get suspicious. If he’s suspicious…it’s over for me, and it can’t be over yet. So…consider this Richards’ last meal.” He frowned slightly, tilting his head. “It’d be rather a shame if his last meal was a pretty awful dining experience,” Pete hummed in a way that gave full indication that he didn’t give a rat’s ass how the dining experience went. It led to a rather vicious grin spreading across their faces, heads tilting in a mildly appreciative manner.

“Well, well…I didn’t realize that this particular breed of spider was venomous…”

“Only if the food’s poisoned,” Pete returned, “though I don’t recommend that, actually. I’ve still got to talk to him. I just need you to make it quick, please,” Pete said. “I need to find who they’ve taken.” Pete paused by the door to the kitchen, his fingers pressing against the flat of the door, waiting for the moment when his sense stopped buzzing.

“Here,” Tim said, moving closer to him than Pete expected. “I’ll make sure he’s not looking, slip into the restroom behind me. Find what you’re after.”

Pete nodded, taking a step back, and Tim pushed the door open and Pete followed after, sliding into the hallway to the restroom behind Tim’s bulk. Pete slipped into the men’s for a moment, washing his hands and then splashing some water on his face, before finally walking back towards Richards.

Richards gave him a lazy grin, leaning back slightly as he approached. Their drinks were already on the table, and Pete sat with a brief apology.

“No issue, no issue,” Richards assured, toasting him with his drink. “Now, to your health and speedy recovery, I should think,” he said. Pete clinked his glass to his and they both drank. “Alright, now, Williams, I did take the liberty of ordering for you, I do hope that you don’t mind…”

“I think I can trust your judgement…” Pete agreed quietly, frowning.

“Good, good, now…” Richards clapped his hands together, smiling. “I think that we should do an exercise here, don’t you?”

“What kind of exercise?” Pete asked.

“How many of these women do you think you could…”

Pete found himself clenching his fists under the table so hard he heard his knuckles crack. He immediately forced himself to loosen them, doing his best to stop his hands from shaking as he pressed them against his pants.

“Well?” Richards asked. “That one’s pretty, don’t you think…?”

Rosie.

“Or that one,”

Isabelle.

“Or…oh, now _that’s_ a sweet one,”

Sylvia _herself_, oh _fuck_ she was coming this way, please, go the other direction, don’t…

“How are you two gentlemen enjoying your stay here tonight?” she asked, cocking her hip deliberately as she got to their table.

Pete was seventeen and, in another life, when he actually _had_ been born in 1900, he may have found the artful way that her dress draped across her thigh attractive. As it was, the only thing he could think of was the fact that this woman was probably old enough to be his mother, and she had personally handed him a sweet roll and pinched his damn _cheek_ the last time he had been there with his aunt. Pete had never wanted the ground to swallow him up more in his entire life.

And then Richards opened his mouth and he wanted to die.

Pete promptly grabbed his drink in preparation for either a sip of something or a distraction in case his expression slipped. Sylvia laughed, a polite sound, but Pete could see the flint in her eyes. Pete wasn’t sure whether he wanted to make eye contact and try and make it as apologetic as possible, look at the ground, look at the ceiling, or clap a hand on Richards’ back and try and get him to stop.

Pete took a sip of alcohol to compensate for his indecision. Pete was reasonably certain that it wouldn’t go over well if he intervened and he wanted Richards to be relaxed.

Sylvia asked them how they were enjoying her little restaurant, telling them that she always made it a point to talk to the guests and see how they were liking their dining experience. Pete kept his mouth shut and let Richards do the talking. It was impressive really, the grace that she put into deftly avoiding any of Richards’ advances and teases, and Pete found himself gaining a new appreciation for the person that the restaurant was named after. Finally, Sylvia turned and walked away, putting a bit of a sashay in her steps. Pete looked towards his glass.

“Now there’s a woman that might be interesting,” Richards hummed. “What do you think?”

Pete had a moment where the words were lost in his brain, unsure what to say, before finally, “It’s too soon,” he settled on quietly, keeping his gaze firmly away.

“Oh,” Richards said, softly. “That’s right, I had forgotten what you lost.” He gave a quiet hum. “Being around these…_people_ must make your blood boil, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Pete rasped, taking another sip of his drink, his eyes closing.

“I’m sorry,” Richards said, leaning back. “We’ll eat quick and go. I should have thought this through, Williams, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Pete said, allowing his hands to fist on the table, his eyes closing as he bowed his head over them. “It’s alright…”

Pete decided later that no matter what, he was rather amused at the show that was steadily put on. Sylvia was in rare form, bringing their food to them with a devilish flair, placing Pete’s in front of his easily, only for Tim to knock into her as he passed, sending the bowl of hot soup meant for Richards right on Richards’ lap. Richard stood up immediately, cussing, Sylvia and Tim both apologizing. He was red in the face, angry as a spitting snake, and Pete caught his wrist before he could lash out. He pulled, looking up at Richards with a pointed look and brought him closer.

“_Not here_,” Pete hissed, which made Richards pause, taking a look around at the people that surrounded them.

Pete could practically hear the gears ticking in his head, the realization that they were outnumbered in every conceivable way, and finally he sat down. Sylvia apologized then, Tim standing down from his position just behind her, catching Pete’s eye in a way that almost seemed…thankful. They got Richards’ napkins and towels, as well as promised to comp him for the rest of the meal. Richards cooled slowly, the gray flush rising up his cheeks fading as he learned that. Pete had no doubt that he would try and get even later…

Not that there’d be a later.

Pete took a few bites of the soup as Richards waited for his replacement, a hearty gumbo that Sylvia’s was known for, and one that made the heat rise under his skin, but Pete didn’t particularly care. It was food and his sense was silent, which meant it probably wasn’t poisoned. Good enough for him.

“How is it, Williams? Good enough to dump all over someone?”

“I’d say so,” Pete responded, giving him a slight grin. Richards allowed himself to laugh. “It’s a spot of bad luck,” Pete hissed. “Either way we can’t take them all. I didn’t bring a weapon with me, did you?”

Richards gave an unhappy sounding scoff. “No, I hadn’t thought I would need it,” he said.

Fortuitous.

Pete continued eating his soup, Richards finally getting his own bowl. Sylvia froze in surprise at the slight flush to Pete’s complexion that she could see, a bit of his cheek and the back of his ear, Pete could see her head tilting out of the corner of his eye, but she didn’t linger. Pete idly wondered what she made of it, whether she would tell the others in the kitchen that the Spider didn’t have much of a spice tolerance. A small part of him wondered if she had recognized the part of his face that she had seen… Though he supposed the reaction was too subtle for that kind of thing.

Richards ate through the gumbo with relish, obviously more used to the heat than Pete himself was, though he made no comment on Pete’s inability. Probably ate with enough people that weren’t able to manage the spice, though that did raise the question on how Richards had built up his tolerance. Pete eyed him carefully, looking over his features, idly wondering…

Richards sat back finally after finishing the soup, giving a small sniff of satisfaction. “I think I see what you mean about how good it is,” Richards said, giving him a slight smirk. Pete returned it, curious as to what, if anything they’d done to the soup. Pete realized that there was going to be another course as Sylvia walked up to them, carrying a tray that held…fish. Of…some kind. Pete wasn’t as well versed in various types of fish as other things. Chicken had been cheaper, and it was chicken that they had served most often in their breadline.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty of ordering…” Richards said finally. “You did say buy you a drink, but you can’t have a proper drink without the proper accompaniment. The herring really brings out the subtler notes of the whiskey.”

Sounded like bullshit to Pete, but he’d let it slide.

Sylvia placed the herring in front of them, giving Pete a very deliberate wink when she put his down in front of him, focused to just over his shoulder and avoiding looking at his face properly which surprised him, but also made him feel rather…comforted. Sylvia then sent Richards’ dish a very pointed glance that said ‘do not touch,’ Richards too focused on his meal to pay attention. Pete hesitated for a moment when she left before finally cutting into the fish. The herring was nicely flaky, served in a sauce that was a very nice mellow flavor that really rounded it out, Pete didn’t eat a lot of fish, but he really liked this one.

The whiskey did _nothing_ for it.

Richards didn’t seem to be having any issues eating his own food, but Pete was mildly curious as to whether or not Isaiah would have actually deliberately botched the dish. Pete was very aware of the way Isaiah had thought of food, the way he had considered it almost a crime to ruin perfectly good food when there were so many that were starving. It made him think that something else had been added to it, something else done that would give Richards discomfort of some sort without causing any real harm to befall him.

Then again, Pete hadn’t expected that Isaiah would make food to be deliberately dumped, maybe he’d changed his tune…

Or maybe the Klan were a special exception.

Watching Richards suddenly turn ashen gave him the realization that either way, Pete did not want to be close.

He stood up, taking a couple steps back from the table, and watching in idle disgust as Richards was suddenly sick all over it. That disgust also turned a bit disappointed as it covered the fish that Pete had been eating.

Pete was not eating that.

Pete took a deep breath, sighed, and as Sylvia and the others rushed forward to ask how he was and apologize, Pete hooked Richards under his arms, giving them his apologies, and taking Richards to the restroom, carefully avoiding having him throw up on anything, or anyone else.

Pete positioned Richards over the toilet carefully, and then locked the door to the outside behind them. Pete waited quietly as Richards heaved, waiting for when he finally calmed down enough to sit up properly. Richards spat into the toilet and looked back at Pete with watering eyes. Pete idly hoped that he wouldn’t vomit on him if he did get up and resolved to stay where he was.

“Well, this didn’t go as planned,” Richards managed, grinning. Pete tilted his head in affirmation. “I gotta say, after this service, I’m kind of thinking it’d be a good time to light some matches, wouldn’t you say?"

Pete hummed quietly, “I think that’d just be in bad taste. They can’t help it if you’ve got a weak stomach. Mine was fine, after all.”

Richards was looking at him with those eyes, and Pete could tell the jig was about to be up. Pete watched as Richards straightened slightly. “You know, it’s awfully odd about you,” he started. “You come in here with this sob story about a dead lover, you rise through the ranks, but no one’s seen you actually take action. Sure, you’ve gotten your arms all cut up, but the way you’re talking…”

“I don’t know what you mean, Richards,” Pete replied, keeping his voice deliberately lazy, tilting his head back slightly. “That’s a rather serious accusation. Are you sure you’re not just sore because you got sick?”

Richards hesitated, looking him up and down with those eyes, his expression getting colder and colder. “Tell me, Williams, do you have a fondness for those animals? Because if I didn’t know any better…I’d sure think you were a bit concerned by the idea of burning them down.”

“I’m concerned with the idea of burning down an establishment in the middle of Harlem, particularly one that’s as well-known as Sylvia’s,” Pete retorted easily, tilting his head. “Don’t you think that’d be a bit…risky?”

Richards hummed quietly, “Maybe you’re right, Williams,” Richards finally conceded leaning away from the toilet. “Though that won’t stop us later.”

Pete felt his insides go cold. “Later when?” Pete asked without hesitation, the words slipping out too fast for him to check them.

Well.

Pete had locked the door.

“Now…” Richards hesitated. “I may not be the quickest man, Williams, and while I think that you are correct on the fact that I might be a bit sore from getting sick… That sounded a bit like _concern_.” Richards started pushing himself up, wiping away sweaty locks of hair, and glaring out at him with narrowed eyes. Pete said nothing, just watched. Richards stood slowly, shakily. “You aren’t concerned, are you Williams?”

“A bit,” Pete answered. “Though at the moment, I have to say I think I’m more concerned about those people that went missing two days ago.”

“Missing, huh?” Richards asked, taking a couple shuffling steps towards him.

“Oh, yes,” Pete agreed. “One of them was named Errol, and there were two other people that went missing with him from the docks. They were on the way to Carl’s when they got jumped.”

“From the docks, huh?” Richards asked, his hands balling into fists. “Don’t tell me you care about them?”

“Errol had a wife and a child,” Pete answered with a loose shrug. Richards pressed his hand against the door next to him, leaning up into his space, his breath rank with the acrid smell of vomit. “It wouldn’t be good for them to lose the man that was providing for them, would it?”

“Well, well,” Richards hummed, eyes gray-rimmed and cheeks ashen. “I wouldn’t have expected it out of you,” he said, and then his fist was planted directly into Pete’s stomach. Pete curved with the punch, his breath leaving him in a rush, that spike of agony ratcheting up his skull something looked for. He fell to his hands and knees on the bathroom floor, wheezing. Richards kicked his side, sending Pete rolling, and the wind out of him for the second time, his breath a choked gasp. “Don’t tell me you’re some kind of spy for those bastards?” Richards asked. “Don’t tell me that they’ve got you coming after them?”

Pete took in a breath, looking up at Richards with a wide grin. “Maybe,” he responded, rasping. “Would it shock you?”

“Cheeky son of a bitch,” Richards hissed, looking almost impressed.

Pete’s only real regret as Richards’ shoe connected with his side, was the fact that he hadn’t taken this outside. He’d actually liked this overcoat.

“You know you don’t have to do it like this, Richards,” Pete hummed. “I wouldn’t have let you live, but I wouldn’t have made it hurt nearly as severely as I’m about to.”

“Hurt _me_?” Richards asked, laughing. Richards brought his fist down suddenly, smashing into Pete’s nose, which Pete felt break in a rush of warmth and salt. “I think you’re the one getting hurt here, Williams,” he spat. “You and your ugly-” blah de blah, creativity, where was it these days? “-loving self… What were you hoping from me? Were you hoping for me to spill the location of where we took them? Because if so, you guessed right in the fact that I do know where we took them…”

“Oh really?” Pete interrupted, licking at the blood coming from his nose idly. “Would you tell me if I asked you with a pretty please?” 

Richards laughed. “How about I beat you ash and gray, and right before you really begin begging for mercy, then I tell you?”

“Sounds fine to me,” Pete grinned.

Richards laughed. “I have to say, Williams…if that’s even your name…I think I might have liked you.”

“It’s not mutual, buddy,” Pete winked. Richards hummed.

“Shame, that,” Richards sighed, and brought his foot down. Pete took the blows deliberately, making sure they were placed just so to prevent any lasting damage. Fists joined feet in a rain that Pete danced with, lances of sharp pain that ripped its way through sides and chest and back and leg and head… Richards deliberately stepped on his arm, tugging the stitches terribly and causing agony to shoot its way up Pete’s skull. Pete couldn’t hold back the cry that left his teeth, but he managed to bite it down harshly before it grew too much, and Richards laughed. Richards reached down, pulling him up, Pete aware of the blood leaking from his nose, from his mouth, the feeling of swollen tissue around his eyes making it hard to open them.

“Well, well, I think I’ve tenderized you well enough,” Richards hummed. “I think now’s the time I can tell you where they are.”

“Would you please?” Pete asked, spitting blood to the ground.

“Yeah,” Richards laughed. “They’re in the middle of old Harlem, in the clocktower. It’s rigged to blow at midnight.”

Pete snapped his hand out like lightning, tightening around Richards’ lapel, pulling him close, bright gray eyes widening at the sudden contact. “Thank you, Richards,” Pete said, grinning. “You’ve been a lot of help.”

Richards tried to jerk back, only for Pete’s hold to tighten, his other hand to come up, and very casually snap Richards’ finger back. Richards screamed, letting go instinctively as Pete pushed himself up to his feet. His body ached with a familiar and welcome sting, and Pete hummed, rolling his shoulders slightly.

“I don’t…” Richards managed, looking up at him with wide and horrified eyes, “I don’t understand…how?”

Pete pulled his mask out from its pocket casually, pulling it over his head as Richards stared up at him with wider and wider eyes, Pete’s goggles easily fitted over his eyes easily. He slipped the overcoat off his shoulders, and removed the scarf, and stared down at him for a moment, drinking in the horror and realization he found there.

“Oh…” Richards whispered, “oh god…oh…”

Pete crouched down slowly, watching as Richards backed away with a sense of amusement building in his soul. “No one to hear your request tonight,” Pete hummed. “You’re just with me. Luckily for you, however…” Pete lashed out immediately, grabbing hold of Richards easily and bringing him close, Richards screaming as his hands came up to his head, and his shoulders. With a quick jerk, Richards neck was broken. “I’m on a bit of a time limit.”

Pete stood there for a moment, breathing through his mouth, before finally peeling the prosthetics off of his spinnerets, and moving to the mirror, peeling up his mask enough that he could go about resetting his nose with the casual ease of someone who had had to do so often. The blood that was already cooling on the mask was ignored. He'd had worse. That done, Pete hefted Richards into his arms before bringing Richards up across his shoulder. Pete unlocked the door, and knocked twice. The door opened, Isaiah’s worried face peering in, only to freeze at the sight of the Spider in full costume carrying the dead body of Richards over his shoulder.

“Call a cab,” Pete ordered. Isaiah rushed to do so. “What time is it?” Pete called out.

“Eleven twenty-two!” a woman dressed in what had to be her best evening out wear called out, her black-painted lips trembling as she stared at him with white-rimmed irises.

“Not a lot of time, then,” Pete hummed to himself. He looked around, looking for any faces that he didn’t know, anyone he knew that he couldn’t trust. Isaiah was doing so as well, he could see, Sylvia herself sweeping the guests.

“Regulars,” Sylvia called back finally, and Pete gave a brief nod.

“Anyone interested in a new coat, scarf, and hat?” he asked, holding them up. “I need a decoy.”

A white-haired man whose complexion was very close to Pete’s stood up then, his limbs trembling. “That man Klan?” he asked, Irish brogue rolling soft.

“Was,” Pete answered.

“Sign me up,” he walked forward, Pete holding himself very still, merely holding out the articles of clothing. The man carefully put on the hat and scarf and the overcoat.

“Are you alright with carrying a dead body?” Pete asked, tilting his head slightly.

“If it means you get to keep doing what you’re doing, then yes,” he said, and Pete very carefully helped the man drape Richards’ arm across his shoulders.

“Sir,” Pete said, indicating Isaiah, “would you be so kind as to help this man escort this one out of the building? I’m afraid he’s deadweight…”

Isaiah gave a surprised laugh, but carefully hooked his arm underneath Richards’ other side.

The sound of a car pulling up outside was heard, and Pete jumped into the far corner, hiding in the shadows. “I’ll follow you,” he hissed. “I need you to run as soon as I stop the car, do you understand? Run like your life depends on it. You won’t be in danger from me, but you need to make it look as though you are.”

“Where do I leave your things?” the man asked, looking up towards his voice without seeing him. _This_ was going smoother than anticipated.

“Corner of Earl’s and 5th,” Pete answered.

“Got it,” the man nodded, and the cabbie entered then, asking who the cab had been called for. Pete’s decoy gave a call, and Isaiah helped the man take Richards corpse out, Pete jimmying the nearby window open and carefully climbing outside. Pete watched from a safe distance as the two of them loaded Richards into the cab, the cabbie giving a bright laugh at how drunk the man had gotten himself and accepting the Irishman’s tip for possible vomit along the way. Isaiah went back into the restaurant as the cab pulled away and Pete immediately began following.

Time limit.

He waited four city blocks before allowing himself to plummet from the air and land in front of the car, the cab swerving, Pete very carefully grabbing hold of it and doing his best to halt the momentum without actually causing too much damage to the vehicle.

This was someone’s livelihood; Pete would kill himself before he wrecked some innocent’s life because he wasn’t careful. The Irishman took Pete’s distraction as time enough to jump out, and he immediately been booking it, Pete sending a shot of webbing after him, but missing very closely. The cabbie had let go of the wheel and was covering his head, Pete opening the door and pulling Richards’ corpse out of the car. At that point there were many witnesses, multiple people screaming in terror as Pete hefted him over his shoulder and leapt, swinging away, still carrying the man.

Pete let out a scream, pitching his voice to match Richards’ as well as he was able to with scar tissue, flipping easily in the air and lifting him higher up his shoulder as he did so. He waited until he had gotten to the edge of Harlem to take a momentary break, always paying attention to the time, making sure that he had plenty of time to get to the old clocktower and potentially disarm, or otherwise destroy a bomb. There was a lot of trust he was placing in Richards’ account, but Pete was pretty sure he knew his type, and besides, the setting and time made sense.

It was the eve of the anniversary of the first negro-owned business in Harlem, a clocktower that had also provided watch tune-ups and clocks. The jazz, and the speakeasies, and the literature had come after, the first thing that they owned was time.

Pete waited until he was pretty sure Richards’ would have given up the location out of fear, and webbed him up, before launching a web to the building alongside them. He attached the web in a tightrope, carrying Richards’ body to the center, and carefully pulled the white hood Pete had stolen from Richards and brought with him out from under his vest. He tugged it onto Richards’ head carefully, tightening it, and then attached a web to his feet, before allowed him to drop to swing there between the two buildings as he attached Richards’ web to the structure.

The Spider had given his warning.

There would be no Klan in Harlem.

Pete immediately turned and began a full-speed sprint towards the clocktower, leaping and swinging over gaps so fast he was almost flying, his stomach left behind him on that tightrope. Pete saw it ahead of him, a beautiful clockface with intricate paneling and equally elegant numbers, the stonework carefully hewn, black tiling covering the top.

The first thing Pete did was knock on the door of the nearest house. After a moment the door opened to reveal a tired looking woman who snapped to full alertness after the sight of him.

“The clocktower has been rigged to explode, the Klan is trying to give a message, I need you to evacuate the area, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stop it from detonating.”

The woman’s expression changed from terror to horrified realization. She looked to the clocktower, and then gave a harsh nod, before letting out a scream of “Bomb! Klan, everyone run!” that split the night in a way that would have woken the dead.

Lights were thrown on in nearby houses, the call taken up by others.

Pete didn’t stick around to see the chaos, vaguely aware of running people below them, he leapt as high as he could and landed on the side of the clocktower with a thump, carefully crawling through the window, feeling a bit like they would have gone for the highest part, and finding out that his guess was good as eight men turned to him from where they had been bound and gagged, each tied to their own individual chair, none of them facing the other, only in their peripheral vision lost in their own personal hell. There were only three that could see the window, and therefore him, their eyes widening at the sight of him. Pete immediately tracked the roof for the bomb and found…

Dynamite.

The rush of relief that went through him was heady. Pete could work with dynamite, among the newer explosives like liquid oxygen, it was an old hat and one that Pete knew how to handle easily, particularly if they were as blatant as the fools that had set this up.

Normally Pete would expect for a timebomb to be placed in such a way that the containment was almost part of the trap. Something where attempting to disarm it might trigger the combination of elements that would lead to one fuck of a bang, but this…

Pete looked over the men that were there, walking around them until he finally found Errol, Pete dropped before him, moving towards him very deliberately. Errol’s heartbeat picked up, Pete could hear it, see the way that his eyes widened, sweat beading up on his brow and trickling down.

“Milly sends her regards,” Pete said and held out the paper that Milly had placed in his web, her wish that Pete was working to grant. Errol’s eyes tracked over the paper in confusion, before realization spread across his visible face, and he relaxed visibly, almost physically slumping. That reaction slowly spread to the rest of them that were aware of his web, of what he was holding, their ears left clear to hear the sound of their breathing and the ticking of the clock.

Sixteen minutes.

Pete reached out carefully and pulled the gag from Errol’s mouth.

Errol coughed, spitting to the side, working his jaw. Pete waited as patiently as he could.

“Is that the only triggering device?” Pete asked, pointing to the timer that had been set up in the center of the tangled mass of dynamite along the ceiling. “Is there anything else in here, do you know?”

“I don’t know,” Errol answered, shaking his head, his voice a rough croak. “I was out when they brought me here. They’ve come back twice since, to taunt us and to tell us that… You came, Spider…” Errol whispered. “You came…”

“I did,” Pete agreed. “Did they touch you during those times, did they do anything to you?”

“No,” Errol answered. “We’ve tried to get up, tried to move, but the knots are too tight, we’re…we’re too weak. We couldn’t get close…”

Pete gave a nod of understanding. “I’m going to check your chairs for explosives,” Pete explained. “I will have to get close.”

“Do your thing, Spider,” Errol said. “Get us out.”

Pete moved towards them, his eyes closed, listening first to see if there were any other sounds that didn’t belong, any ticking that was coming from something other than that one in the center above them.

There was something.

Pete immediately moved towards it, finding it coming from the center of the room, but not up as the timer was, but below. Pete pressed his ear against the floor, hearing the muffled sound of more ticking.

So. They had been clever after all.

Pete leaned back, removing his goggles and tracing the floor with his eyes, testing the limits of his newly enhanced vision, looking for any signs of wires coming out from the floor…

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Wires, coming from underneath their chairs, which explained why his sense hadn’t gone off as Pete moved forward, all of them fine as fishing line. They led to their bonds.

Fuck.

Pete checked the time again, ten minutes, and began doing a bit of mental math. The chairs were bolted down, so they were unable to do any walking forward of the chairs, and the bonds had been tied so the chairs themselves were almost a part of the knot, keeping their hands relatively stable. All of this pointed to the idea that the lines weren’t able to carry a spark or other triggering mechanism, it likely would come from the application of force. The cruel twist of allowing them the idea of freedom, only to snatch it away from them at the last moment by placing their rescuer in the position of pulling the wires and activating the bomb below… Well, that was just nasty.

However, there was no reason they couldn’t twist in their bonds, which meant that there therefore would be some amount of slack given. If there was slack, Pete could exploit it. Pete carefully approached the wire nearest him, examining it closely and seeing that there was just that slightest bit of curve that indicated slack, that indicated that Pete could attach a bit of webbing to it and finish its track to the ceiling. Pete wasn’t sure if removing slack totally would cause it to activate as well and it was best to simply keep it stable.

Explosive devices loved stability…

“Don’t move,” Pete said, pulling a knife from his vest. Pete shot a line of webbing to the ceiling and brought it down slowly before carefully touching his wrist to the wire a little lower than the knot. He felt the catch of the wire against his webbing and sliced the wire above it, allowing the wire to dangle from his webbing at nearly the exact height it was before. Pete sliced through the man’s bonds around his hands then then, and carefully cut through the bonds on his feet. There was no warning buzz of his sense.

One down, seven to go.

Pete moved quickly but carefully, attaching wires to the ceiling and slicing them out of their bonds. When they were finally all free, Pete indicated that they followed him to the window, speed leading to silence. Pete had them jump up with him two at a time, grabbing him and each other, swinging them to a likely safe distance, and then repeating it with the others, telling them to run.

Pete didn’t necessarily know if he could save the clocktower, but he rather liked the idea of making it so the Klan had none of their plan, and Pete knew that he could get clear in time if he couldn’t.

Pete made his way to the timer in the center, carefully beginning to work on removing the triggering mechanism before finally with a feeling of heady relief it stopped with four minutes to go.

Pete pulled the triggering mechanism away completely, adding that extra layer of security, and turned his attention to the floor. Pete dropped down, applying pressure carefully in places, feeling the buzz of his sense roll and finally ease up completely. Pete punched his fist through the wood, beginning to carefully pull it back and away in order to expose the bomb, as well as the complicated wire set-up that did look a bit as though any change of slack would have led to an explosion. Pete became extra careful in his excavation, moving as quickly as he could, making sure that he wouldn’t disturb the wood that held the wires in place still, or the webbing attached to them.

Pete took in the final set-up with a heady feeling of annoyance, his eyes tracing the components and the delicate mechanisms that would trigger the chemical mixture necessary to blow the place to kingdom come. This one was a doozey, and Pete didn’t have much time, his own mental countdown placing him at two minutes thirty…twenty-nine.

Pete first began carefully removing the wire triggering mechanisms with a knife, and the dull warning of his spidersense in his skull letting him know when he was cutting it too close, leaving him with beads of sweat running down his skin, but no longer the same amount of terror, or need to be as careful. Pete carefully touched the cover plate to see how his sense would react to it, not even putting pressure, but there was no warning buzz. Pete carefully began working his fingers to the edge, hooking them there, and finally pulled the cover plate away from the mechanism, finding the same one that he had just defused in the other bomb.

One minute ten.

Pete began carefully working his way through the bomb, cutting wires, twisting connections, and finally, finally, the mechanism ceased.

Ten seconds to go.

Pete collapsed to the ground beside the bomb, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming out in a rush, having held his breath what felt like the entire time, his hands beginning a delicate tremble that he felt through his entire body. Pete pulled up his mask over his mouth and nose, taking deep gulps of air. The sudden sound of the door being slammed open almost made Pete leap out of his skin, but his sense didn’t scream in warming, so Pete very carefully pulled his mask down, turning his head to see who was there.

Luke Cage stood there, staring at the floor and what Pete had done to it, Cage staring up at the ceiling above, taking in the dynamite.

Luke Cage looked down at him again, taking him in, before he very carefully dropped to the ground.

“What the **_fuck_**?” 

Pete found himself laughing until he cried, a reaction he hadn’t had in so long he almost forgot about it, half-hysterical, and entirely exhausted. Cage looked like he had no idea how to react to Pete’s outburst, but Pete couldn’t help it, and almost didn’t want to… But the night wasn’t over yet, Milly still needed her father back.

Pete stood up shakily, forcing his limbs to move, and pulling the goggles back down around his eyes.

“Cage,” Pete said. “I wouldn’t touch the dynamite. Maybe see about getting someone to remove it? I’ve got one last thing to finish.”

Pete dove out the window before he could say anything, searching for Errol. When he finally found him, the man had slumped against the wall and was shaking, his hands over his face, trembling running down his limbs. Pete landed in front of him, causing Errol to start, before his eyes locked on his.

“I haven’t fulfilled the wish, yet,” Pete said, his head tilting. “I need to bring you back to Milly.”

Errol hesitated, before finally took a step towards him, “Please, Spider,” Errol said. “Take me home.”

“You good with a piggyback?” Pete asked, an eyebrow rising. Errol blinked, looking at him in surprise, before finally threw his head back and laughing.

“Get me home however you need to,” Errol agreed. Pete turned, indicating for Errol to climb on. Shaking limbs threaded over his shoulders, Pete hiking him up into position. Errol was taller than him by a solid few inches, but Pete’s strength and his natural stick meant that it wasn’t much of a hassle. Pete jumped, Errol shouting out in alarm, before making his way as slowly and as carefully as he could back towards his office.

Errol got used to the feeling of swinging very shortly, and Pete could feel the grip on him relax slightly, the man taking careful breaths in time with Pete’s swings. Finally, Pete could see their destination in the distance, and Errol gave a sudden cry of joy. There was a voice that answered that cry, a loud voice that exclaimed, “Daddy?”

“Milly!” Errol yelled, very much in his ear, and Pete had to fight the flinch as his ear began to ring, his sensitive hearing registering that as akin to an attack. Pete didn’t say anything, Errol didn’t notice. The little girl running towards them was given a further shout of recognition, a taller figure running after her, Errol's wife, Lois, her own voice yelling out Errol’s name. Pete moved faster, finally coming in for a landing and releasing Errol from his natural stick, and stepping away.

Milly leapt towards Errol, Errol catching her in arms that had been trembling, but would lift her no matter the weakness, swinging her up in the air and giving yet another shout of her name, even as she yelled for her daddy, the two of them spinning once in jubilation, before Lois crashed into them both, her arms flung around them, pulling them close, pressing a firm kiss to Errol’s lips, Pete immediately turning away at the sight.

Pete backed away, beginning to turn…

“Where do you think you’re going?” Pete blinked, turning around to see Lois staring at him with tears in her eyes, kohl running down her face. “You can’t go yet,” she said. She took a few steps towards him, her eyes torn between the natural fear of him and gratitude, before she finally managed to fling her arms around him. “You brought my husband back,” she whispered, tightening her hold, sobbing into his shoulder. Another pair of arms surrounded the two of them, Errol embracing the both of them. The sudden feeling of a pair of arms hugging tight to his leg brought his attention down to Milly. “You brought him back to me. Thank you, thank you so much…how? How did…how did you find him?”

“I answered a wish,” Pete answered numbly, barely able to think of the answer, lost in the rush of realization that they were hugging him. They were hugging him. Here, where…where he was a monster, where he was cursed, where he was hated… “Wishes left in the web are powerful things, so long as they’re given to your neighborhood Spider.”

There was a laugh, and a wet agreement, a promise that there would be another wish, soon, a wish for him specifically. Pete didn’t know what they could possibly have to wish for, but he would check later. For now, Pete was too lost in the rush of success to really care about it.

Later, Pete would have to come up with excuses for the leaders of the Klan. He would have to tell explain what had happened, how he had been able to escape when Richards hadn’t. He would have to talk to Cage and Daredevil about the bomb defusal, he would have to talk to Tony.

But that was for later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I think Pete would be able to defuse a bomb? Yes, for a couple reasons up to and including the fact that there were literal published journals specifically for explosions and the advancing of them. The 1920-30s were a hell of a time! There are other sources but this one below kind of gives you an idea. I cannot find my listing of other explosive journals but they exist, and I think that's wild. Point being that someone that wanted to study science likely got their fingers all over everything even remotely similar, and I could totally see him going apeshit over the concept. 
> 
> This is a kid that literally carries dynamite with him pretty frequently lol. Fuck yes, explosions. 
> 
> OH!!! I'm also aware that whiskey doesn't go with fish. That's some wine bullshit, but I thought it was funny, so I went with it. Richards is a dumbass. 
> 
> Now he's a dead dumbass lol. 
> 
> fuck the kkk
> 
> thank you for your comments and your kudos, I love you all~


	5. Parker Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, guys, where the hell to begin with this. First and foremost, I think, I'm sorry that it took me so long to write this. The chapter that you will read will probably tell you why, it is long and it is dark and it is sad. I kept having issues wanting to write it because I knew it was going to be so dark, and it is. So like. Please keep that in mind. Be kind to yourselves. There are moments of kindness in this but I would almost call them tainted? Next chapter will be better in some ways and probably worse in others. 
> 
> Another thing I need to address is a character that will be appearing here that is frankly absolutely disgusting and I hate his guts and the fact that he ever decided to show his face, but he'll get his soon enough. Actually, because I think in this case it's worth knowing if a character is going to get away with something like this or not, he gets his arm broke and his throat cut. He's a disgusting thing, but I promise that while this will get into non-consensual touching, it will never, EVER, progress into actual noncon. It's a promise, alright, so you don't have to worry about that suddenly popping up. I adamantly refuse. Other things, other things. Oh. There is a *lot* of depersonalization in this chapter. This is just. It's heavy. Take care. 
> 
> I hope that everyone stays safe and that you all are good.

Pete took a moment to breathe, perched on top of the building that contained his office. Solving a case and stopping a bombing was not how he had planned to start the night, but it wasn’t that bad for a night’s work. The problem was how to conclude it.

Pete had made sure there were witnesses, he had made sure that they had seen the Spider take a man, and another man run free. They would have known that Pete had been picked up by Richards, it wouldn’t be hard to connect it to him. So, Pete stood up, looking back to Harlem, and after another moment where his breath rose as mist in the cool air that surrounded him, billowing out in a white cloud, Pete jumped, and prepared himself to lie

Pete fell into the Klan’s entryway, for once finding a use for the bruises that had been painted across his body by Richards. His face was a mess, still, he knew, and he’d replaced the prosthetics on his wrists, so there was nothing to connect him to the Spider, and everything to connect him to Harlem, an attack on a supposed colleague, and the rallying of the people to hurt the other one with him when the Spider had missed its target.

Pete had lied like his life depended on it (_it probably did_) on his knees before one of the Dragons, biting the inside of his mouth until his eyes watered with it, swallowing down the blood that rose, but not bothering with the tears, the terror he tried to call up.

Pete was so numb he found it hard to draw upon those feelings that he was supposed to have, but Pete had grown to recognize terror when he saw it, and he had worked hard to mimic it.

The Dragon before him never removed their hood, but Pete could see the eyes behind it, see the worry and the anger. Pete spoke of being beaten to the ground before the word had spread of a bomb in the clocktower, having run away as fast as he could from the initial attack from the Spider. Pete spoke of not even knowing there had been a bomb, which was true, as that wasn’t included in the meeting from Wright, of the fear that had filled him. Pete spoke also of the way he had come here immediately, coming to spread the word as a native to New York, and as the last man that had seen Richards alive.

The Spider was deadly, and it had marked them as an enemy.

The Dragon stood up then and walked forward as the rest of the Klan moved to spread the word and rally. Pete felt himself flinch as the other man came close, an involuntary motion as his spidersense shrieked, and the man paused, before crouching before him, removing his hood. Pete did not recognize the face, but that almost didn’t matter, he would learn it – and eventually he would find it.

“You have no reason to fear,” the man said, his steel-gray beard curling with his soft frown, slate-eyes creasing with actual concern. “You did what you should have, Williams. I am not from around here, but I do know enough about it to know that you could not have stood against the Spider. You came here with information as soon as you could have, even after being beaten.” His hand reached out and Pete held very still as he gently cupped his jaw, his thumb tracing the bruise, the man’s mouth in a fine line of displeasure as he stared at it. Pete felt sweat trickle down his back, his heart thrumming rapidly, fingers forced to lay flat instead of balling into the fists that he wanted. If Johnson noticed his discomfort, he made no show of it, merely ran his thumb back the way it had come, gentle, gentle. “You will face no discipline for what you could not control,” he assured finally. “May I see what they did to you?”

Pete hesitated, the feeling of discomfort at the idea of removing just his shirt rising up higher in him, particularly with the few people that remained, waiting for the Dragon to give further orders. The man noticed his weariness and his gaze, and made a gesture, the other men leaving.

Somehow, this made it worse. Pete suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here with this man whose name he didn’t know who was too personal with his touch and seemed to enjoy the idea of watching him squirm.

“My name is Robert Johnson,” Johnson introduced with the hint of a smirk, “will you let me see now?” Pete hesitated, leaning back slightly, but at the realization that there was nowhere to go and at the thought that this man was a Dragon, and Pete needed a man of higher rank in order to get information from… Pete finally began to unbutton his shirt, his fingers fumbling with the buttons – still cold from the outside, and not properly able to heat up yet.

Or at least that’s what he told himself. 

Johnson made a sound and reached out, Pete freezing. “May I?” he asked. Pete hesitated, before lowering his hands. Pete kept his breath even, lowering his chin, wanting to back away. “I have medical training,” Johnson explained, which Pete didn’t buy in the least, but challenging that… Pete lowered his hands and Johnson began unbuttoning his shirt from the top button down, slowly and methodically, more of that sweat trickling down as Pete kept his expression perfectly blank, looking a bit over Johnson’s left shoulder. Johnson hissed through his teeth at the sight of what Pete knew to be a large black bruise on his own shoulder, pausing in the further removal of his shirt, which Pete was deeply glad for. Johnson once again reached his hand out and carefully brought his finger to it, tracing the edges, and Pete held himself

Perfectly.

Still.

His finger lingered there for a moment, burning, before Johnson shook his head and pulled back.

“It’s strange isn’t it, how a bruise can affect the purity of flesh,” he said softly. “You are the whitest I think I have ever seen. Have you ever considered having children?”

Pete felt his breath leave him in a rush, not even realizing he was holding his breath, immediately tugging his shirt on. “At one point,” he said, a sentence that stung of truth, swallowing the knowledge of what had been done to him, of what he was connected to. “But it is still…”

“Too soon,” Johnson nodded in understanding. “I do know what happened to your girl. Was she your wife?”

“Yes,” Pete whispered. “Four years.” Which, according to the records falsified by Stark, was completely true.

“I understand.” Johnson stood. “As men it does not matter as much, of course,” he said softly. “We are permitted by the superior nature of our sex to wait. Women, they will no longer be a viable partner past a certain point, but as men our vitality does not wane.” Johnson’s gaze fell on Pete, those eyes burning in a way that made Pete want to simultaneously run and gouge out those _eyes_, he hated him, he _hated_ him. “Eventually, though, you must do your best to spread your seed. The genetics for that skin should be passed. It’s a shame about your hair, but there is nothing that can be done for that.”

Pete swallowed more blood, tasting the salt as it trickled down his throat, and trying to force himself not to vomit. Instead he gave a brief nod.

“And of course, in the meantime…” Johnson moved closer, and Pete had to force himself not to crawl away, his heart pounding in his chest, and that desire to maim and tear and kill growing with every second. Johnson held his hand out, and Pete took it, allowing Johnson to pull him to his feet. Johnson’s hand trailed up Pete’s arm to his shoulder a line that _burned_ and made Pete want to break his wrist, break his finger, break _him_, before he turned him very gently, and gave him a slight push towards the exit. “Go home and rest.”

Pete allowed himself to stumble out of the room, his skin on fire where he had been touched, and knowing that when he got home, he would scrub himself raw. It also made him want to somehow gray, even though he knew that if he tried, he would only burn. It was the only time he found himself cursing his genetics, but it was not the first time he cursed the Spider God for bleaching him. Pete waited until he was well out of view before leaping to collect the web ball that contained his costume, immediately making his way to the street near ‘his’ house. He made sure to be seen going to it, rubbing his arms in supposed pain, and nursing a limp. His sense buzzed with the feeling of being watched.

Pete would not be going out tonight.

The door was shut, and Pete walked forward, feeling the usual pricklings across his spine from the bugs that Stark had installed.

There were no new tinglings, no emphasis that he was being watched by something new. Pete immediately went to the that small nook, pushing it open to reveal the phone that connected him to Stark. It started ringing almost immediately, and Pete answered.

“_Spider_!” Stark cried out; his voice was thick with something Pete couldn’t identify. “_What the _fuck_ happened, why did you_…?”

“Shut up,” Pete hissed, “listen to me closely, Stark, the Klan are mobilizing. I just… I declared war. I wasn’t planning on it, but I think I just declared war. There are Klan planning on going and I think… I think Sylvia’s is in danger, as are the East docks. They have to be protected, but I can’t be among the ones doing it. They’re watching me, Stark, so I’m going to stay indoors tonight. But I went back to them. I got a Dragon.”

“_When you say you have a Dragon, what do you mean_?” Stark asked, his voice cool, calculating.

“I mean I have his name, his face. I could probably pick him out on the street now. It’s not the highest, but it is close, and I might…” Pete hesitated, his eyes closing as he tightened his grip on the phone, “I might be able to use him. I think he likes me.” The bile rising in his throat was swallowed down and Pete lowered his head, listening to what would be said.

“_Oh-ho_,” Stark cooed. “_Well, well, we may get out of this yet. Alright. I will…take care of Sylvia’s and the Docks_.”

“Thank you,” Pete said automatically, finally allowing the weariness to fill him.

“_Think nothing of it, Spider_,” Stark said, his voice as patronizing as ever, filled with a mocking sort of sneer. Pete bit back the retort he wanted to make, instead giving a little nod to someone who couldn’t see and hanging up. Pete took a step away from the phone, and finally stumbled up the stairs. Pete made it to his bedroom and immediately moved to the bathroom, stripping everything from his body and stepping into the rain bath as soon as he was out of the view of whatever was watching, cranking it as high as the heat could go.

When his skin was finally gray with heat and sore from the amount he had scrubbed it, Pete finally stepped out, walking to the mirror and staring into it for a moment, taking in the shade and sighing heavily, gripping the sink for a moment, dipping his head low. After a moment he moved back to the overcoat and pulled his mask from the pocket, throwing it in the sink and dumping alcohol in it, leaving it to soak the blood out. He’d take it out in the morning to dry. His shirt was given the same fate, knowing it was the best that he could do to sanitize it. He looked his arms over one more time, deciding that he would deal with them in the morning, and stumbled over to where Pete had left a change of clothes for sleep and for the next day. As his room was always watched, Pete could never truly allow himself to think of it as his own, nor could he ever think of getting changed with those eyes on him.

The thought made him shudder as he pulled on his shirt, the tinge of the bruise on his shoulder not felt with any relish for once in a very long while. Pete came into the bedroom, looking around, and then promptly fell upon the bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

The thought of eating turned his stomach.

* * *

Pete woke up the next morning feeling a bit more alive than he had in the last week. His sleep hadn’t been completely restful, the feeling of being watched throughout the night was a hard thing to shake, but it was in a house and in a bed, and most importantly, it was _warm_.

Pete looked out at the sky outside which had cooled to the dark ash of a winter storm. The snow hadn’t started yet, but Pete had been out in it long enough that he knew when it would. It was one of the few times that Pete would sleep in his web in the Office. But it would only be for as long as it took for the neighbors to get restless. As soon as that happened Pete would leave. There was no need to antagonize them, and there were other places to huddle.

Pete moved to the bathroom, removing his clothing from the alcohol in the sink and hanging it up to dry over the shower, closing the curtain. It would smell astringent later, but it was better than smelling of dried blood. Pete performed his cuts and re-stitching of his arms before once again bandaging them. After a moment Pete looked at himself in the mirror and realized that the bruises had healed.

Pete had been sure to memorize the bruise along his jaw and the one on his shoulder, knowing that those were the two that had been looked at the most, the ones that had been traced. The one to his temple was also important. Pete didn’t think his nose would have to be rebroken, it had already been long healed by the time he showed up before the Dragon.

Pete gave a soft hum, and brought his hand up, finding that spot on his jaw and putting pressure until he felt the soft veins under the skin burst, flooding the area with blood and causing a bruise to blossom beneath the surface. He repeated that to his shoulder, squeezing until it was tender and covered just the same amount as it had yesterday. That done, Pete gave himself a few more bruises along his torso and legs, artfully arranging them in the same way he had seen his body covered after entirely too many nights. Once that was done, Pete finally began dressing for the day, overlooking the tenderness with ease. Breakfast was appealing in a way that dinner hadn’t been, and he found himself cooking for the first time in a long while.

Pete had enjoyed cooking with Miles and his family, but it was more of a communal effort, one where he hadn’t been in charge of everything, and admittedly that had been one of the best parts of cooking for the Breadline. Pete could make decisions there, how much of this vegetable to use, what seasonings he’d put in it… It was control. A minimal amount of control, but still control, and it had been something he’d relished.

With so little actually in his control, Pete found himself enjoying cooking now more than ever.

He made scrambled eggs and buttered a few slices of bread, sticking them in the pan to toast, sprinkling salt and a bit of pepper over the egg. Pete tried to hold off on cooking all of the remaining eggs, amazed at the fact that Wright had even bought _cheese_. A large white wheel took up a good portion of the fridge, something that Pete stared at with amazement before cutting off a slice. He wound up eating that plain while waiting for everything to cook, enjoying the buttery flavor with just that bit of sharpness.

Wright must have been _loaded_ to be able to afford what he brought. Pete hadn’t even seen the cheese, must have been deeper in the bag…

Pete finished cooking his eggs and his toast and brought the entire skillet over, not even bothering with a plate, but throwing a towel down to protect the table. It’s not like anyone could judge him past Stark, and frankly Pete didn’t give a shit about him. Pete felt like he could trust Stark to have handled the situation last night and even if there was some issue, he would have called during the night, Pete was certain.

No news had to be good news.

Pete found himself wolfing down his breakfast, barely even stopping to breathe, shoveling the eggs in with the toast itself. Pete hadn’t eaten since that herring and soup, and he’d had quite a bit of time since to go hungry.

Pete was tired of going hungry.

When he finished Pete washed the skillet and the spatula and left them to dry on the towel that he laid out to catch the water. That done, he had a moment to think. What would be the more likely scenario? That Pete was so worried he came to the Klan to talk to them and see what had happened? Or should he wait?

The doorbell ringing brought Pete’s dilemma to a close in a rather satisfying way, finding that the man behind the door was Wright.

Pete opened the door and Wright came in, his eyebrows pinched and his mouth in a frown, “Hell, Williams,” Wright hissed, his voice filled with worry. “I swear every time I see you; you get yourself into worse scrapes.”

“Terrible luck, I’m afraid,” Pete said with a thin smile. Wright gave him an answering smile, his eyebrows creasing before Pete let him in. Wright walked with Pete over to his sitting room. “Do you want coffee?” Pete asked.

“Please,” Wright agreed, and Pete nodded, going to get the beans that he had found in the bag in the drawer and set to work grinding them and putting them in the coffee pot for brewing. Pete returned as soon as it was set up and Wright smiled at him. “Well, you’ll be happy to know our retaliation was successful. We did not do nearly the amount of damage that we had planned to, but we sure taught them a thing or two…”

Pete’s breakfast felt like it had turned into a leaden lump in his belly.

Pete tried to turn the shock he felt into a call of surprise that they had acted so quickly, trying to do his best to respond to Wright’s explanation of what had happened, of what had been done… But inside Pete was reeling.

Stark had promised.

Stark had promised, and Pete had trusted him. He’d slept without a care, he’d eaten, he… Pete felt a hand touch his shoulder and flinched back immediately, only spared attacking Wright by Wright’s own call of apology, flinching back himself. Wright was frowning at him, his eyebrows pinched and his expression a mask of concern. He’d come close enough to be kneeling before Pete, and Pete wanted to scoot back, but there was nowhere to go.

“Williams, I’m so sorry,” he said softly, “I should have…” he hesitated, gesturing towards him, towards his head. “I feel like I’ve upset you outside of putting more strain on you before you were fully healed. Of course, you wouldn’t want to hear this now.” Wright waved off, leaning back. “Did you want to be involved in our retribution?”

Pete swallowed, recognizing that this was yet another moment when he had to lie and to lie well. “I’m sorry,” Pete finally said. “It’s just…I joined with the intention of making the lives of others better. It seems…it seems to me that all I have done is get hurt and made things _worse_. Richards is dead…yet here I sit.”

Wright hesitated for a moment, and then stood up, “right.” He said and walked into Pete’s kitchen. Pete sat numb, looking at nothing, when Wright came back a moment later. He was holding two cups of coffee, “do you take yours with sugar or cream?”

“Black as blood,” Pete returned numbly, and Wright laughed, before handing his coffee over. Wright had obviously added cream and sugar to his, the milky substance inside looking like it was more cream than coffee.

Disgusting.

“Williams…” Wright sighed. “I admit, I feel like I’ve done you a great disservice. I gave you an idea of what it was like and then every chance that you have had to be a part of it has gone wrong. It’s not fair to you. You have done nothing to deserve what has happened. I am told… I’m told that Mike was the first man you killed.”

Pete wanted to laugh at that, at this point Pete knew that if he wanted, he could count the number of lives that he had taken, the number that hung from his throat, but it was something he never did. Pete instead allowed his head to lower, focusing on the coffee. Pete did not try and remember his first kill. Did not try and feel that numbness and rage and joy that was such an awful combination within him he’d almost wanted to be sick. He’d killed the Vulture. He’d killed his uncle’s killer.

Pete had painted blood on his hands.

Wright was quiet for a moment, taking in his body language, before softly sighing, gripping his knee. “It…is a terrible thing, being forced to kill in self-defense.” His voice was quiet, something real in the words. “I was making my way home when they came out of…they came out of nowhere. A group of negro men, falling upon me without warning, without… without _reason_. I thought I was going to die, but I got off one single hit, and that hit with my cane was enough to cause one of my attackers to fall to the ground, where he hit his head on the concrete and died… Much like Mike did with you.”

Wright fell silent, and Pete found himself listening quietly. “If it was not for the police that came in at the commotion, I think… I think I might have been dead. But this attack was what convinced me that they were everything that I had been told they were.” Wright stood up, pacing. “I denied it at first,” Wright said softly, looking back at Pete in a manner that could almost be described as apologetic. “When they first told me of what sort of men they were, I…ignored their warnings, and I nearly paid for it with my life, and instead painted my hands with blood. My goal since has been to bring as many people into the fold as possible, to protect and even…empower the people like I was. I have failed that with you, Williams,” Wright said, his voice so soft. “I have given you no power, and at every turn it seems as though more has been stripped of you. You came to avenge your wife and there has been nothing given but pain.”

Pete did not know how to respond, had no idea what kind of words he could string together to express…sadness? Commiseration? Happiness that he was alive? The emotions were so distant, the sentiment so buried under thoughts of a single attack not making the whole of a group Pete did not know how to proceed.

“I’m sorry,” Wright said suddenly, straightening up. “I have attempted to console you and instead made it entirely about myself.” Wright hesitated. “Perhaps I can make it up to you. Would you join my wife and I for dinner this Wednesday? It would give her time to prepare, and I know that if I did not give her such, she would skin me alive.” Wright gave him a rueful grin, and Pete forced his own mouth to curve. “We would be able to cook for you once more since you are still healing, and we can talk about some small things that you can help the Klan with specifically. This way you can help still.”

Pete hesitated, before finally nodding, “yes, I…I think I would like that.”

“Splendid, Williams,” Wright called out, clapping his hands together and smiling at him brightly. “Oh, that’s dear news. My wife has wanted to meet you, she wishes to giver her sympathies for your departed.”

“That is kind,” Pete managed, “I will thank her.”

“Good,” Wright smiled, and then sighed. “You are doing the right thing. Don’t doubt yourself.” Pete felt that like a punch to the gut, a shock of something deep inside of his soul that welled up and almost came out. Wright once again clapped his hands together, something of a nervous tick, Pete expected, “I’ll see myself out,” Wright said. “Thank you for the coffee.” He hadn’t even drunk it. “Feel better, Williams. I will leave my address on the table. We will call you with further details for Wednesday.”

Pete nodded, and watched him leave.

As soon as he was alone, Pete found himself sinking to the ground, holding his head in his hands, a deep burning the likes of which Pete had forgotten filling his chest. He hadn’t felt like this since the death of his uncle.

Pete thought it might be grief. Pete sat numb until he thought his soul would burst, until the tumulus thoughts inside his mind had coiled deep.

When it stood up, the sky was dark, and Pete had ceased to be.

* * *

By the time the Spider stood on the tower of the one that had so utterly betrayed him, whatever that burning had been had changed to something that the Spider knew. It had changed to the burning of rage. The Spider climbed into the vents, taking them down until he was perched there over Stark’s desk, watching and listening, their words washing over him. The meeting was closing, but the Spider was content to wait.

It was an ambush predator, after all.

The Spider waited until it was dark, until the first flakes of snow had begun to fall outside, until the last of Stark’s workers had left. As soon as Stark was alone. As soon as he closed his briefcase and made to stand up to leave for home, the Spider slid the vent open, and lowered itself behind him on a thread. Stark continued to get ready to leave, his movements unhurried, certain. The lines of his shoulders completely unburdened of guilt.

The Spider found itself hissing, a raw rattling sound deep within its chest. Stark jolted, swinging around, and jerked back, pressing himself against the desk at the sight of the Spider in all of its black and all of its power and all of its death. The Spider pulled on the thread, curling its body up and back, looking at Stark full in the face, lowering itself to loom, but still clinging to its web.

“You didn’t _act_, Stark,” the Spider hissed.

Stark leaned back, pressing himself against his desk, and for once those slate eyes were filled with terror instead of the cool smugness that had always filled them. The Spider allowed itself to relish it.

“Sp-spider,” Stark stuttered, leaning away from it, and finding that there was nowhere to run. “You…how did you, why are you…?”

“How many people lost their lives, lost their livelihoods because you didn’t pass along the message when I told you?” the Spider hissed, reaching out, and pressing its hand to the left of Stark, letting go of the webbing and easily lowering itself to stand before Stark with unnatural power and fluidity, framing Stark, and causing him to fall back. 

Stark swallowed, leaning back further. “You…”

The Spider had always regretted the fear that it caused, always despaired at the sight of the people it tried to save cowering before him, but this… This was welcomed. This was something that would be relished for _weeks_.

Stark shook his head, leaning back, and finally made a break for it, falling back and over the desk. The Spider let him go before crawling up and over it, completely unhurried. Stark had wanted to act as though he had no reason to fear it…

The Spider would give him a reason to fear the ones who were Cursed, bring the fear everyone not in Stark’s ivory tower felt at the mention.

How _dare_ he.

“You promised you’d handle it,” the Spider hissed, walking towards him. “You promised you’d do what needed to be done.”

“And how was I supposed to do that?” Stark asked, distance granting him bravery.

Foolish.

“Contacted the people in your address book and spread the word,” the Spider hissed, taking another slow step. “Called whoever would take your money without hesitation and made them listen. Get a hold of Cage.”

“I notice _you_ didn’t,” Stark said, tilting his chin up, defying.

“You’re right, Stark,” the Spider hissed. “I was only locked in the house, watched on every side. If I called through a public line, they would have heard me, the phones inside the house are still connected to a party line – outside of the one to _you_. My only contact for long distance is _you_, Stark. If you don’t act, then nothing gets done.”

Stark’s expression shifted, backing away from him, before finally anger spread there, _real_ anger, and the Spider paused for a moment, tilting its head out of quiet interest. “You jumped the gun!” Stark yelled out, pointing to it. “You were supposed to go out and punch a few Nazis, or a few Klan, I get it. I understood the need to go and blow off some steam. I did! But you went and you decided to not just kill a man but hang him up in front of Harlem for everyone to see! You made a fucking monument to it, and you were the one that made fucking sure that everyone knew you did it! _You_ endangered the entire fucking operation by declaring war!”

The Spider hissed, moving closer, its body hunching and coiled, energy ready to explode in a second. “War was already declared the fucking _instant_ they started burning crosses, burning shuls, and hanging bodies. You really think we could have gotten out of this without casualties? You think I should have let that clocktower blow up?”

“No,” Stark answered, drawing himself up, the look on his face almost cruel, “but if you hadn't made a fucking show of killing him, Sylvia's would probably still be in existence, and all those dock workers would still have work.” The Spider paused in its motions, freezing in a moment of shock that it couldn’t help. Sylvia’s, the docks? They’d burned them? “You brought all of their attention on you, and when they couldn’t find you, they spread it to the ones that had been marked to die, and the ones that were the last to see whoever the fuck you hung from your web alive.” Stark said, and his expression had turned sneering. “They knew where they got most of those men from. You shouldn’t have taken the blame. I thought you hadn’t at one point. I thought you would have given the blame to someone else, passed the buck. If you had just let _someone else_ take the _fucking_ blame, we would still be alright. They would have killed him, and we could have moved on. But no, you had to do it as yourself, as…as whatever the fuck _this_ is.” Stark sneered. “I don’t know why I act as though you would understand…”

“And the fact that they likely would have still tracked down whoever I gave the blame to and killed him?” the Spider interrupted. “The fact that an innocent would have had to die for the cause?”

Stark lifted his chin, his expression coldly superior, looking down his nose at it. “A sacrifice that would have been worth it in order to support the cause.”

“...A sacrifice?” the Spider repeated softly. “Would he have _known_ he was to be laid out like a fucking lamb to a slaughter? Were you hoping I would have _asked_?”

“It would be something he should be grateful to do, because his sacrifice would have spared so many,” Stark answered, his eyes narrowing. “This is no place for your ideals. This is the fate of an entire State, of a bunch of minorities that need _our_ help. You should have given the fall to someone else, and you should have let him die.”

“That's awfully big of you to say sitting here in your ivory-fucking-tower, looking down at us like we're ants and beneath you,” the Spider hissed, bristling all the way up the length of its spine. How fucking dare he, how fucking _dare_ he act like he was going to be their fucking savoir when he wasn’t even a part of it? “You don't know one single damn thing about the people living there. You don't know shit about them, and you don't care. You act like you don't have a damn ideal, but I bet if I had asked Jarvis to sacrifice himself for it, you wouldn't be so quick to fucking condemn me.”

“...Jarvis would be well within his right to be that sacrifice,” Stark whispered, doing his best to stay rigid, but the Spider had seen him pale.

“Yeah,” the Spider hissed, leaning close enough to smell the expensive cologne, to smell the fear rolling off of him in waves, as usual finding himself disgusted by that particular heightened sense, “but would you let him?”

Whatever Stark would have said was interrupted by the door banging open, the Spider immediately leaping up and back, sticking to the ceiling and instinctively clinging to the shadows, knowing its form blended to them. Luke Cage stood there with his hands balled into fists, Daredevil beside him.

Daredevil’s sightless gaze fell directly on it, and the Spider held still, but Daredevil said nothing.

“We shouldn’t have let it do it,” Cage snarled. “It was obviously a mistake. It’s too much of a live wire, going off without thinking about the consequences. Didn’t fucking think of what would have happened. Had the fucking balls to smile at me before diving out the window and leaving everyone to deal with the fucking fallout without a single warning.”

“I did leave a warning,” the Spider hissed, causing Cage to jerk back, looking up at him with wide eyes, “I called Stark.”

“You called…” Cage hesitated, before his gaze shifted to Stark, Daredevil’s head cocking slightly. “What did it tell you?”

Stark had frozen, staring from Cage to the Spider, to Daredevil, completely unmoving.

“Stark,” Cage snarled, taking another step forward. “What did it tell you?”

The Spider watched as Stark hesitated, shifting slightly. “It called me about the docks and Sylvia’s.”

“It told you about them?” Cage’s voice had gotten quiet, his expression darker than the Spider had ever seen it. “He told you about them, Stark, and you still let them get torched?”

“Look,” Stark said, his expression also dark. “How the fuck were we going to take care of it without someone getting suspicious? How were we supposed to know what to protect? He’s a fucking mole, it’s his job to be stealthy and on the down-low and not make stupid rash decisions that cost a bunch of people their jobs.”

“I don’t care about him right now,” Cage said, snapping his hand to the side. “What I care about is the apparent fact that he warned you about what was happening, and _you_ didn’t act!”

“My point remains,” Stark returned, his head tilting up. “The only way we would have known that Sylvia’s and the docks were targeted is if someone told us, which would have made them wary because it might have indicated that they had a spy in their midst. It would have made his job much harder and we can’t afford that.”

“You daft idiot,” Cage frowned. “Do you really think that we wouldn’t have been able to claim that someone talked? The Spider saved eight men, four of them from the docks that were burned. The man was seen leaving in a taxi, and the taxi driver lived to say that he came from Sylvia’s.”

“You say that,” Stark frowned, “But it’s obvious that no one talked.”

“No one talked because we thought the Spider would handle it,” Cage said softly, taking a step forward. “We didn’t get any follow-up information, and no one was organized to figure out that the majority came from the docks. If we had known that the Spider had followed-up, we would have been able to take steps. You decided that because _you_ couldn’t figure out a fucking reason for us to have been prepared that you were going to strip the livelihoods from hundreds of people because of the fucking _mission_? A mission that is meant to **_save_**_ the livelihoods of **my** people_?”

Stark was silent, taking a step back. “It was the right thing to do…”

Cage’s right-hook was sudden and violent, planting a fist directly in Stark’s face, and the Spider found itself popping up slightly in order to watch it better as Stark fell to the ground. “So was that,” Cage said simply, tilting his chin up, and then looked up at the Spider. “Spider, come with me. I need to talk to you.” The Spider gave a slight nod and followed after Cage and Daredevil, crawling across the ceiling.

“Cage!” Stark called out suddenly, and they turned, for a moment watching Stark as he wiped the blood from his nose, his gaze baleful. “Remember the deal.”

Cage stiffened, before giving a slight nod, and Spider followed them out, for a moment wondering at the deal that could have been made. After that display, Spider didn’t mind the idea of getting into the elevator with the two of them.

Cage was silent for a moment. “I can’t fucking believe him,” he finally said, punching at the elevator doors with a solid clang. “You heard him say that? He knew that what he did was wrong! He knew!”

“Careful,” Daredevil cautioned quietly, “Last thing we want to do is be stuck in here.” He paused, “and I heard him…” he agreed softly.

Spider remained quiet, his head tilting, but said nothing.

Cage snorted briefly and began pacing. “Why didn’t you call us?” Cage finally asked, looking up at him.

“Party-line,” the Spider explained simply, “the only one I had direct contact with was Stark. I was also being watched. I went back to the Klan and I lied through my teeth about what had happened, and they followed me back.” Spider was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, Cage,” it said softly, flattening himself against the ceiling almost reflexively, Cage looking up at it quietly. “I should have gone back to you, but I wasn’t sure if I could find you in time, and I thought that Stark would have contacts I didn’t.”

Cage was silent for a moment, before finally sighing heavily, giving a soft nod. “You did everything you could have. I got some of the story from Errol, we found him.” Cage was quiet for a moment, before looking up at it again. “You have a lot of people that hate you now.”

“What was I to do?” Spider asked, a bit of that frustrated anger bubbling out. “Was I meant to let the clocktower blow? Was I meant to let them die? You saw the dynamite. That was enough to level the entire fucking city block in a mile radius, from the _debris_ if nothing else. Richards _needed_ to die.”

“I could understand that,” Cage said softly. “I understand that he figured out who you were and that you were using him for something. But you should not have killed him like that. It was a frankly stupid move and it has led to escalation that we weren’t ready for. And that’s partially on us for not coordinating properly.” Cage was quiet. “Actually, that’s on Stark.” Cage frowned up at it. “But Stark is not a part of our venture, not that anyone knows, nor will know. Heath owes me everything and so he keeps his mouth shut, but the rest of them…”

Cage was quiet for a moment, his mouth in a fine line. “There was another deal,” Cage finally said, looking up at him. “Stark promised to fund the venture so long as his name remained out of it at all times. To the public, to everyone, he doesn’t exist, and until this venture is over, Stark’s name must be kept out of it.” Spider was surprised to see a bit of regret in his expression. “You know what that means,” he finally said softly, and that regret had solidified, turned _real_. “You know what blame you have to shoulder.”

The Spider found itself flattening against the ceiling, for a moment burying itself in its coat and in its hat and blending completely in with the shadows, a burning agony lancing so deep through its chest… “_Yes_,” it finally said softly, voice a quiet hiss.

Cage was quiet for a moment before he cursed. “Spider,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Spider said nothing.

“You’ll come to us,” Daredevil said quietly, and Spider looked down at him. “Should something go wrong, you go to Cage, or you go to me. You know where Foggy’s office is, you can leave messages there as well and they will get back to me. You will also report to us. If you cannot find a way to get to us, we will get to you, and that is a promise.”

“I’ll give you a further list of contacts,” Cage said, frowning up at him. “You can go to them at any point and they will spread the word to me. We won’t let this happen again, Spider.”

Spider was quiet for a moment, before after a moment of hesitation, dropping into their midst. For a moment the two men flinched back, and then they stood tall, staring at him with cold determination. “Thank you.”

“It needs to be done,” Daredevil said. “Stark proved that he can’t be trusted to give information when needed. We will have to circumvent him until he’s shown himself to be trustworthy. He won’t cut you off. We’ll make sure of it.”

“On another note, and I feel like this needs to be said, finding that man hanging there like that?” Cage grinned, “the Klan might not have liked it, but I sure did.”

Spider blinked, before giving a slight nod of its head, feeling a slight warmth rise up in its chest.

“I’m assuming you went directly to the Klan,” Cage said as the elevator doors opened, and they stepped out into the foyer. “What did you say and what happened?”

“I got the name and face of a Dragon,” Spider answered, its tone falsely casual. Cage and Daredevil immediately focused on it, their interest unwavering. “Robert Johnson. I could spot him in a crowd if I saw him again, but in general I would say late forties, early fifties gentleman, taller than me, possibly six foot at the least, and he has a full head of hair and a beard. There’s white in the silver around his mouth and the pattern is a bit distinctive.” So, saying, Pete traced the white lines that started in Johnson’s mustache and went down through a beard on either side of his mouth.

“That, Spider, is some excellent news,” Cage grinned.

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Daredevil said, and they nodded, before Daredevil tilted his head slightly, as though listening. “I have to go, but that is very good news.” Daredevil hesitated before giving a nod to them both and running out to a waiting car.

Spider watched him leave, and then turned to Cage.

“Keep it up, Spider,” Cage said with a nod. “I think we’ll keep with every two days approach to gaining information. If you can’t get to us, we will get to you.”

Spider nodded, and Cage left. The Spider paused for a moment, and then made its way to the ceiling, and crawled out of the building in the shadows, swinging off into the city.

The Spider may not be able to talk about Stark, but it could at least see what damage had been done.

* * *

Spider paused on the edge of Harlem, for a moment looking towards Sylvia’s and the Clocktower, before turning his gaze towards the Docks, Millie and her family.

The Spider remembered that embrace, even though the idea of it had started to fade, and the Spider doubted that it would receive the same greeting again, but it was still something… Spider ducked its head slightly, knowing in its heart that this wouldn’t be the welcome it would receive.

It had failed them.

Spider leapt from the roof and made his way to the docks, swinging and running, as fast and as hard as he could manage until his body ached with it, and then he pushed himself further. When it finally made it to the docks, its lungs burned, and its wrists felt as though they were on fire, the bruises working their way back into being. As it took in where the docks had been, the smoldering wreckage that Spider had been standing on just yesterday, it felt that it was no more than what it deserved.

Spider took a few steps onto it, staring at the wreckage, the lost livelihood, the damage, and felt that burning rise into its heart, the sharp acrid smell of smoke stinging its lungs. Its steps crumbled the wood beneath its feet, black and ash rising up with every step, swirling up with his coat, drifting in the air to rain where it may.

Spider walked as far as it could, stopping at the moment where the skeletal remains of posts and struts poked out of the water, the only part that had been saved in the all-consuming fire. Spider thought that they could thank the fact that it had no neighbors on why it hadn’t spread. Spider stood there, staring out over the river, the empty rippling mass, knowing that there was nothing that could be saved, nothing that could be done.

There was nothing left. Just a monument to ruin and devastation.

It ducked down, pulling off its glove and reaching out a hand, pressing it into the cooled ash, coating it in black.

The Spider’s sense kicked into being and it took a step to the side, watching as a rock splashed harmlessly into the water behind him. It tracked the trajectory and found a man standing there. As it locked eyes with him, the man took a step back, before squaring his shoulders back. The Spider recognized his face.

He’d been the man the Spider had interrogated. Another rock was thrown.

Spider didn’t avoid this one, letting it hit him in the chest, a sudden sharp sting that faded almost instantly. Spider took another step towards him, and the man froze, but then he began yelling.

“You fucker!” he called out, “You _fucker_! You saved Errol and the people in the clocktower but didn’t give a shit about the rest of us?” he yelled, throwing another rock. Spider stepped into it, letting it glance off his arm. “You were supposed to _help_ us! You were supposed to save us, not let us fucking _burn_! What kind of spy are you supposed to be if you don’t let us know they’re going to retaliate? How fucking dare you show your face here like you didn’t cause this whole thing?”

Spider tilted its head, watching as the man heaved for breath, and said nothing.

“_You_ caused it!” the man shouted again. “You…you started a war we weren’t ready for! A war that we had no hope to win, and you weren’t there when we needed you!” His voice broke, and he dropped the rock he was holding. “My baby! My baby, my _wife_, my **_family_** I don’t have a job, how am I going to feed my family? How am I going to feed them?” he wailed, clasping his hands to his head, falling to his knees as he stared out at what had been the only source of his livelihood, tears running down his face.

Spider said nothing. There was no answer that it could give.

The man’s wailing finally stopped, and he wiped his face, smearing ash across his cheeks. “I trusted you to get the job done,” he finally said softly. “And I’ll never trust you again.”

Spider felt the sting, let the words seep deep into its heart, and then walked away.

There was nothing it could do here.

* * *

Spider had spent the night in a daze.

It had tried to enter Harlem, but couldn’t bring itself to, something about the heat in its chest rising to the point it felt it could choke on it whenever it came close, so it had retreated. Eventually it had started swinging through the city, dealing with whatever small petty crime that it could find, and then finally, just as the sun was starting to rise, it collapsed into its bed at the house Stark had left, feeling the buzz of being watched start as soon as it entered. The bugs were still there.

When it could stay in bed no longer it took special relish in reapplying the bruises, sinking them deep into skin, cutting through its flesh with the cold precision of a surgeon. The thought of Octavius flashed through its head, and its knife dug just a bit too deep. It cussed but didn’t do more than press a finger to it, pain pulsing through its skull. After a moment it stitched itself up again, dressing for the day to go out as Williams.

It still had a job to do.

Yesterday had been a bust, but it wouldn’t let that happen again.

It did its best to smile at the people that met it, returning their greetings. It was not expecting for the ones that took it aside and asked how it was, how it was feeling, the concern written into their faces as they stared at it. Williams told them it was okay, smiled at their concern, and thanked them, smiling and laughing when they inevitably turned to joking to lighten the mood, eventually walking away. There were so many repeats of this, so many people offering concern, touching its shoulder, their faces creased with worry. 

They could see the injuries; see the way it was holding itself. 

It listened to their talk, took note of who they were talking to and what some of them were planning. Small things, inconsequential. It seemed as though after their quick mobilizing the day before they had decided to relax, at least for now.

The Spider noted all of this, and eventually found Wright, who scolded it for coming, telling it to go home, to rest. They would have a meeting soon, and it would be introduced to Wright’s wife in a day after all, why would it not wait? It needed to go home, to heal.

It didn’t want to go home.

It didn’t want to heal.

When it could no longer find a way to deny Wright’s insistence that it go home, it finally left. That night it moved to Harlem, finding Sylvia’s a ruin, the few buildings next to it either half-way to cinders, or coated in black ash. There was nothing left. It couldn’t find Sylvia herself, or any of the people, and the one time it was spotted the words that chased it out of Harlem echoed in its skull the entire way out.

Wright picked it up at six sharp the next day, a smile on his face, taking it to a taxi that was waiting there, telling it that he lived a little too far away for walking, particularly in its current state. It said nothing to correct that view, simply thanked him, ducking into the car when the door was opened for him, and allowing itself to make idle conversation with him. When they finally pulled up it was to a house that rivaled the one that Stark had given it to use.

A gate led up to a long driveway and a yard, the house within beautiful brick crawling with ivy, sharply rooved with slate-colored tiles, that matched the posts on the porch, and the door. The amount of money needed to get just the space alone was enough to give it hives.

Spider followed Wright into his home, startled by a cry of “daddy!” and a much more sedate call of,

“Father!”

A small child ran up to Wright first, attracting the Spider’s attention immediately, leaping into his arms, the two of them laughing as Wright lifted the child up and tossed them in the air before giving them a quick kiss on the cheek, and then putting them down. The Spider had a moment to get a good look at tousled white hair, sun-kissed gently grayed skin, and a gap-toothed smile that was trained his way, wearing long pants and a shirt that had come untucked, and then his attention came up to the girl that was around Pete’s actual age, leaning forward and kissing her father on the cheek. She was wearing a pinstriped dress that went to her calves and had her gray hair in a gently curled style that framed her face. She turned to it as well, giving it a gentle smile, ducking her head slightly.

A rather large part of it was distressed at the fact that it found her pretty.

“Williams, this is Scout,” Wright said, smiling, putting his hand on the little boy’s shoulder, and Scout took a step towards him, holding his hand out for a shake, a wide beaming grin on his face.

“’Lo, sir!” Scout called out, and Spider allowed itself to shake the small hand, giving him its own smile, trying to make it genuine. “You got an awful shiner there,” he said, his mouth pulling into a tiny frown, and Wright hushed him. Scout ducked at that, but Spider merely lowered itself closer to his level, unable to deny the pang in its chest, even though it knew the child was the whelp of a Klan.

“I do,” it agreed, “do you want to see?” it asked, and Scout nodded his head quickly, leaning closer to see the bruise across its jaw.

“Gosh, sir,” Scout said softly, something like admiration in his tone, “that looks like it hurts.” He hesitated before rolling up his sleeve, showing a nasty bruise. “I got this yesterday! I fell from a tree. Mama said I was lucky not to break it.”

“Oh,” it said, giving the bruise a good look, and nodding gravely. “Yes, you would be. I will spare you what happened to _my_ arms, I think.” Spider nodded, and Scout looked up at it with wide, curious eyes, but Spider smiled at him slightly secretly. “As for your question, it does hurt,” Spider agreed. “But it’s alright, I’ll heal, and so will you.” Spider stood up and turned its attention to the girl.

“This is Mary,” Wright introduced, and the smile that he was giving Spider felt a bit strange, full of pride, maybe, or gratefulness. Spider held his hand out to her, and she took it, smiling at it brilliantly.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Spider said, with a slight nod of his head.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, too,” Mary said with her own nod, letting go of its hand. “Mother’s prepared something rather delightful, I think you’ll find. I helped,” she grinned.

“I’m sure it’ll be amazing,” Spider assured with a slight grin of its own. It could do this. It was just a matter of going through the motions. It didn’t matter that it had never been to a fancy dinner party. It’d be able to figure it out or lie its way through.

Probably lie its way through…

“Shall we have a cigar while we wait?” Wright asked, looking to Spider.

Spider had kept what Rio had said in the back of its mind for a long time, remembering clearly what she had said about the connection between smoke and cancer, and had left off for her benefit if not its own. That did not mean the idea didn’t still appeal. Spider found itself agreeing.

Spider followed Wright to the sitting room, a large and opulent room complete with a fireplace and an overflowing set of bookcases. Mary and Scout followed them, though Mary kept a bit of polite distance. She instead moved to the bookcases, searching through for a book easily. Her father did not scold her, and Spider found itself momentarily interested. It had expected for him to tell her to leave, to claim ‘woman’s work was elsewhere,’ but Wright merely smiled indulgently.

“Mary loves reading,” Wright said, pulling a couple of cigars from a box and casually snipping the ends, before handing one over, bringing up a matchbox. Spider allowed Wright to light the cigar for it, taking a couple decent puffs to catch it alight, and then backed away when it did.

“Reading’s wonderful,” Spider agreed softly, exhaling smoke. “It’s fascinating the things you can learn through books. What is your favorite?” It asked, turning its attention to her.

Mary turned surprised eyes to him, before grinning. “Dracula,” she said, unflinchingly, looking a bit as though she expected it to comment on her choice. Spider merely grinned.

“I rather liked that, too,” it said, blowing out more smoke in a ring. “The fact that Harker spends most of his time at the castle unaware that the Count is anything but human in the beginning is amusing.”

“How he throws his shaving mirror out the window,” Mary called out, her eyes gleaming, “and the only thing he can think is ‘how am I going to shave?’”

“Exactly,” Spider nodded, and Mary laughed aloud.

“It is, rather,” she smiled. “It’s silly to think that he wouldn’t notice the monster that’s with him.”

Spider kept the smile that wanted to spill across its face internal, knowing it would likely turn ugly and bitter. Instead, Spider gave a nod, blowing another ring of smoke, allowing the amusement it felt to be visible in his eyes.

“Have you read any Lovecraft?” Mary asked.

Spider had to hold itself very still. “A bit,” it finally said, trying to keep the bitterness out of its words. “I can’t say I agree with him.”

“No,” Mary agreed, nodding. “I don’t either. I think it’s too distant to what’s actually happening, too cruel to the ones that it affects, but I do like some of the concepts. I think in some ways it would have been better if it did work like he stated.”

Spider gave a brief nod. “Perhaps it would be kinder.”

“Yes,” Mary said softly, looking to the window. “Though perhaps that’s because it’s fictional.”

“I think that’s quite enough of that,” Wright said, his voice deliberately light, but when Mary turned to him with a slight flinch, he shook his head. “It’s quite alright,” he assured with a slight smile, “I just think that it’s not good before-dinner conversation.”

Mary smiled at him, relaxing fully. “You’re right, my apologies, Mr. Williams,” she said with a bow of her head towards the Spider.

“That’s quite alright, I started in on it, too.” Spider nodded its head in turn and turned its attention to Scout who had been leaning against his father’s chair looking bored out of his skull. “Tell me,” it said softly. “What made you climb all the way up a tree in the first place? When did it happen?”

Scout brightened up immediately with a grin, “I did it yesterday, sir,” he said, “I had thrown a ball and it got stuck, so I went to climb up and get it. Only someone,” Scout stared very hard at his older sister, “called my name really loud from behind me, and it startled me, so I fell.”

“I didn’t think that you would have fallen from the _tree_,” Mary returned with an upwards tilt of her nose. “I was just trying to call you for supper.”

Scout rolled his eyes, and looked to Spider very closely, leaning forward, “She was trying to murder me.”

“Absolutely was not!” Mary retaliated, and Spider found itself somewhere between amused and incredulous. It had never had siblings. It found its gaze travelling to Wright, who rolled his eyes expressively, amusement obvious.

“Excuse me,” called a voice, and they all turned to lock eyes with a woman who was graying, but still walked with a bounce, and had an all-knowing twinkle in her gaze. “But dinner is ready.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Wright called out, and took the cigar from Spider, putting it out. “We shall continue these after dinner, I believe. This is Elma, our housekeeper, by the way. Elma, Mr. Williams.”

“Pleasure, sir,” Elma said, giving a slight curtsy. “I was…sorry to hear about your wife.”

“Thank you,” Spider said numbly, giving her a slight nod.

“Your wife?” Mary asked softly, looking to it.

“It’s probably not very good before-dinner conversation,” Spider said lowly, its head bowing.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking down as well.

“What’s wrong?” Scout asked, looking between them all, visibly confused.

“It’s alright, Scout,” his dad said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Scout seemed to accept this after a bit of huffing, but his father didn’t budge. They left the room and headed to the dining room, where a woman stood there with an apron around her waist, beaming widely at them. She gave a kiss to her daughter’s and son’s cheek, before turning to Spider, who bowed its head carefully and held out a hand.

“Ma’am, thank you for having me,” it said.

“Oh, the pleasure is mine,” she returned, taking its hand and smiling, “my name is Grace.”

“Lovely,” it said with a smile, and took the seat she indicated, Wright pulling Grace’s chair back and allowing her to sit first, before sitting himself.

The smell coming from the spread before him was heavenly, a large pot of what looked like chicken and dumplings, homemade pickles, some sort of steamed cheese and tomatoes, and steaming bread that had already been cut into thick slices were waiting before them on the table.

“The family I come from is rather southern,” Grace said with something like a sheepish smile.

“It all smells delicious,” Spider found itself assuring automatically.

“It is,” Grace’s smile had ceased looking shy and had instead widened, delight obvious. “If you would pass your bowl.”

Spider did so and allowed her to serve it, watching as they all handed their bowls up to be served, and a bread slice was given to them, butter passed around, and finally they began digging in. Spider watched Wright closely, even as it had to force itself to stop from inhaling the bread it had just taken a bite of. Spider had been avoiding eating, but it hadn’t had a chance to regret it before now. It definitely needed to watch to see if Wright got seconds.

It was delicious, the dumplings beautifully doughy and light, the chicken wonderfully seasoned and the broth it was in, a wonderful salty concoction. When Wright dunked his bread in it, Spider nearly died, carefully not quick to follow his example, but quick enough. The tomatoes were also delicious, coated in a sort of cheese mixture that melted in its mouth. The conversation was light and careful, talking about school, and work, and projects that they were working on.

It was…pleasant, wonderful even, and the longer it went on and the kinder that they were the more Spider’s insides felt like they were being digested. 

They were a perfectly kind, genuine family, and in another life, it would have loved to have dinner with them. But all the while, what they were, what they represented, rang in the back of its mind, the sense a low throb in the back of its mind. How dare they be kind to it? How dare they be reasonable?

How dare they?

Spider managed to eat its fill regardless, following Wright’s example of taking seconds, giving its appreciation to the cooks involved. Grace laughed, Mary preened, and Elma tittered. They brought out pie at the end, something that Grace explained was green tomato pie. The smell coming from the latticework crust was heavenly, and Elma was the one to serve it, taking their original plates and bowls away and replacing them with a small plate of their own pie. Spider had never had it, but he found it was, just as everything else had been, quite wonderful.

When they were done Spider was on the edge of comfortably full, an edge it had not scraped up against in a long while. They returned to the sitting room, leaving the dishes to Elma and a small kitchen crew whose names Spider did not learn.

They returned to the sitting room temporarily, Wright handing Spider the rest of its cigar, which it lit on a match that was provided, Wright lighting his own once again. Grace sat on the couch with Scout leaning up against her, looking about ready to go to sleep. She pet her hand through his hair, shushing him, as Mary sat on the other side of her mom. Spider took a quiet puff of smoke, savoring it, before letting it out.

“Williams,” Grace said softly, her voice quiet. Scout was halfway asleep at that point, Spider noticed, watching her quietly. “I am so sorry about what happened to your wife. I’m happy about what’s been happening to you.”

“What happened to your wife?” Mary asked, her voice hesitant.

“We were attacked,” Spider said softly, “by a bunch of negro men, who beat us both savagely. She…died due to complications later.” Spider allowed its mouth to curl into a bitter smile.

“I’m so sorry,” Mary said softly. “That’s…I’m sorry.”

“Animals, the lot of them. It’s little wonder they Turn so easily,” Wright mumbled.

Spider just felt cold, but as it watched, it noticed the way Mary’s head lowered, the way her eyes slid as though she was uncomfortable.

_Interesting_.

They finished their cigars, the conversation having turned much lighter, and the Spider took its leave, thanking them profusely as it went, Wright seeing him to a taxi.

Cage visited that night and the Spider gave it a full report, being told to stay indoors that night. Apparently, there was potential talk of attacking it if it was seen, and Cage had to work on curtailing that before it spread. If it was supposed to be spying for them then it needed to be able to go among the people unscathed.

Spider hissed but didn’t complain or argue.

The snow fell that night. 

* * *

Thursday it went to its office and found something that nearly made it fall to its knees.

The slips of paper were gone. Where they had been the web was torn away. Black strands trailed in the breeze from the open window, forgotten cobwebs in an attic.

There was no wish left for it. But there was the sound of approaching feet.

So frozen in shock was it, that the door was able to swing open, and Errol stood there, Errol holding Milly in his arms, his wife Lois behind them.

Spider met their eyes, and felt itself lower to the ground, submissive, small, and Errol’s mouth curled into a snarl.

“Spider!” Milly called, reaching out to him, only to be pulled back by her father, Errol’s expression black as pitch and as cold as the snow behind it.

“No, Milly,” Errol said. “Don’t touch it.”

“But…” Milly started, looking at her dad in confusion. She was wearing her shoes this time, Spider noticed, even as it felt its heart constrict.

“No,” Errol commanded, his voice a harsh snap. “No. It’s proven what its worth. It’s proven what matters. All of the glory and none of the clean-up, huh?” Errol asked it, his chin tilting up.

Spider said nothing.

“You saved my life,” Errol said, “you saved me, you brought me to my family, and for what?” he asked. “For _what_? I don’t have a job! I don’t have…” he was crying, tears leaking from his eyes, holding Milly who was too young to know what was happening, why her father was crying, why she couldn’t go to it.

She started sobbing, Lois taking her from her father, who stood there with empty hands dangling by his sides, staring at the Spider as though he wanted to strangle it. Spider almost wished he would try.

It didn’t think that it would fight back.

“You let me down,” he said softly, swallowing. “I _trusted_ you, I thought… You were so on top of things, you diffused two _bombs_, please Spider,” Errol said softly, taking a step towards it. “Tell me that it was a mistake. Tell me that you tried, that…that something happened, and you couldn’t help us. Tell me that something came up. I know that you’re busy. I know that. I know that you have so many people to save, and I know that we aren’t your usual community. I know that. Just…tell me that you couldn’t, and I can forgive you. I can, if you just tell me that you tried, that something came up, that…”

Spider stared at him, the words heavy on its tongue, the truth that it had tried to help, had tried to call Stark, had _tried_… But had it really?

It had lied to the Klan, that was for certain, and it had been followed home, but had it _tried_ to leave? Had it tried to do something to help them outside of calling? Could it not have at least tried to leave later, could it not have done its best to not trust Stark to contact Cage and the others?

Why had it left the matter to Stark?

Spider hung its head, and backed away, crouching there, unmoving and unspeaking.

Errol said nothing for a moment, looking away. “Well then,” he finally said softly. “I suppose that’s shown what you’re worth.” He pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket, and threw it towards him, the paper fluttering into the air and falling to the floor. “Your wish, Spider. From Milly. I hope I never see you again.”

And then he turned, kissed his wife, kissed his daughter, and left. Lois stared at him with tears running down her face, lines of kohl trailing down her face from her tears and shook her head.

Milly called for it as they left, her voice calling for the Spider, telling her parents that she wanted to see it, that she wanted to give it a hug.

Spider didn’t know how long it crouched there unmoving, how long it stared at the scrap of paper, but when it finally picked it up there was a drift of snow all around. Its movements were stiff, cold eating into its bones as it picked up the slip of paper and found written in a steadier hand than Millie’s own,   
  
‘I wish the Spider was not so sad, and that he gets better soon.’

It didn’t know why its eyes were blurry or why its goggles soon grew foggy.

* * *

Friday it braved Harlem.

Apparently whatever uprising had been happening had been quelled, Cage giving it the all clear to go back. There was nothing thrown at it, nothing done to hurt or stall it, but there were hissed comments and poisoned looks.

Then it saw someone it did not expect.

She stood bathed in moonlight before a storefront, her hands on her hips and her head tilted slightly to stare up at it, a smirk on black-painted lips.

Sylvia.

There was no one around, the hour the sort of late that meant that most were indoors, particularly now that Sylvia’s restaurant had burned to the ground in this corner of the neighborhood. The Spider acted on instinct, flipping to the ground behind her, and pulling its mask off. She had already seen its face and there had been no recognition, but this was an apology it had to make. She turned, surprise visible in her eyes, small wrinkles there deepening as they widened, and then to Pete’s surprise she relaxed. 

“Well, Spider,” she hummed, her voice soft with a smile, “I’m surprised to see you.”

“I…” Spider hesitated, looking away, his head bowing. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “About your restaurant. About what happened…”

“Nothing that can’t be taken care of,” Sylvia hummed, her voice soft, and Spider’s head snapped up, staring at her with wide eyes. “Yes,” she said, smiling, “the store behind me? We bought it. We moved our supplies out before they burned the old place. We had expected that there might be retaliation and reacted accordingly. It’s a setback, to be sure, but we had already been preparing for it. Particularly in these times.”

“But…” Spider said softly, “I…”

“The retaliation you are facing does not come from my quarter,” Sylvia shook her head. “We already knew you would not be able to save both us and whoever you gained information from. We had assumed, however, that you would have saved the ones with the most need. Those dock workers, Spider.” She shook her head, the look in her gaze something dark, something shaming. Spider hung its head, feeling the hair brush its forehead, even past the sweat that plastered it to its head.

“I’m sorry,” it said, “It was never my intention to…”

Sylvia made a sound, the kind of sound that made Spider’s shoulders creep up towards its ears, hunching, looking up at her with surprise. That was nothing compared to the way she was looking at it.

To its surprise she reached out, taking hold of its arm and pulled it to the building, a mittened hand going into her pocket and pulling out a key, even as she pulled the Spider towards the door. Surprised, and too out of sorts to fight, it let her, following her inside. It wasn’t expecting the way she removed her glove, the hand that came up to touch its cheek.

It wasn’t expecting the tears.

“_Peter_?” she asked. Spider’s soul felt as though it had frozen, and whatever had shown on its face was enough for her to cover her mouth, and bow to the ground. “Peter, oh Peter, oh _child_!”

Spider said nothing.

“You’re here! You…you’ve…of course it’s been you. _Of course_, it was you,” she was crying, tears falling from her eyes as she stared at him. “Oh, _baby_, what have you done?”

Spider flinched as though struck, looking away.

“Baby, how long have you been like this? When did it happen, _why_?” her hand was suddenly warm on its cheek, lifting its gaze to hers. “Why would you do this to your aunt?” Spider flinched. Sylvia looked to the heavens, before looking back at him, and that hand had turned gentle. Spider had forgotten the bruise there, the black staining white skin. “You knew what reaching would get you.” She said, her gaze suddenly flinty as she pulled her hand back. “You knew what it would get you, why would you do it? Why would you…” Sylvia looked away, looking up. “Your aunt wept for you. We searched for you. We searched for you for months, and then we searched for your body. We never found either. Though I suppose now I know why.”

Spider didn’t move, couldn’t find it within itself to answer.

“Whatever possessed you, whatever led you on this path… I want you to know it _wasn’t worth it_,” Sylvia’s gaze was cold as she looked at him, cold with just the hint of despair. “All along you’ve been the Spider and I do not know how it is you do what you have done, why you have not Changed completely… But I want you to know that it wasn’t _worth_ it. I held your aunt as she cried. We mourned you, Peter. We _mourned_ you when all along you’ve been _right here_, and I want you to know that I’m _ashamed_.” Spider flinched. “I’m ashamed that you would fall for the same thing that has made monsters out of men, has made a monster out of _you_."

Spider’s head bowed; its eyes closed.

“I won’t tell,” she said softly. “I won’t tell anyone who you are, who lies underneath that mask. I’ll let you rest in the dirt, Peter. I’ll let you rest in the dirt where you belong, beneath the headstone and the rocks and prayers we placed over it. When you finally do die, do so where no one will find you, or Change among the ones you can destroy, so you do less damage. But Peter is dead and buried. You don’t get to tarnish the name of that good boy any longer.” Sylvia’s eyes were full of tears when Spider found itself looking up into them, “Get out of here,” she said softly, looking down, looking away, and Spider took a step back from her, and finally began to run.

Its mask was pulled back on, breath panting through it as it ran and it ran and it ran, until it was out of breath, bowing on the ground, feeling as though its heart would break out of its chest. Its breath rattled in its lungs, shuddering through it, the burning in its chest so bright, so sharp it was piercing. It couldn’t breathe.

It couldn’t breathe.

It finally blacked out, and for a while at least, it knew no more.

When it woke up it was covered in snow, its body stiff and aching with cold and exertion. It looked up, and found itself somewhere unexpected.

Broken and chipped marble reached up to the sky like bony fingers around it, and it stood up quickly, stumbling back and into a headstone. It froze, bowing over, curling in, staring around at the graves that lay around it, the tight paths built between them, stared around at the dead.

Stared around at what it should be.

Its heart in its throat, Spider started walking, looking around at the numerous graves, wondering how many had been put there because it had failed to save them. Wondering how many had been put there because their lives had been cut short by a loved one that had betrayed them.

It walked until suddenly it knew what corner it was in, until it knew what grave stood before it, a path it had instinctively walked. A path it knew from what felt like decades ago but had only been a couple years.

Uncle Ben.

And right next to it, Peter Benjamin Parker.

Spider fell to its knees before the grave, feeling like a string had been cut, losing the feeling in its limbs. The words burned into its skull, staring at the letters that had been roughly hewn. They hadn’t been affluent enough to buy a decent headstone and the rock before it, with the rocks stacked around and on top of it, the lives that Peter Benjamin Parker had touched and filled with love, and would never touch again.

Peter Benjamin Parker was dead.

He was dead, he was dead, he was dead.

The vibration on its wrist startled it out of its thoughts. It looked down and found that the goober was flashing.

It stared for a moment, at first not even comprehending what it was seeing, before it realized that it had been getting messages.

It paused, looking at its grave, and then in a moment of bitter irony it brought its wrist up and stared at the text, pressing it to open the goobers menu.

There were so many messages. So many words and pictures and blueprints, and there, blinking brightly as the newest one, was a message from Gwen.

‘_We love you enough to wait, Pete_, _I miss you so much. Do you like pineapple on your pizza_?’

Spider blinked, and then Pete blinked again. He stared at the watch and tilted his head slightly, a slight frown pulling at his mouth.

What did she mean by pineapple, and why would Pete eat it on pizza? What did she mean by pizza? A beat later, and another text was sent.

‘_You don’t have to be afraid. We love you enough to stop you_.’ ‘

Pete felt his heart wrench, his head bowing over his knees as though he had been physically struck, bowing over the grave, his grave, his grave, oh g-d, oh g-d…

“Spider?” called a sudden voice, an unexpected voice, and Pete turned around, seeing J. Jonah Jameson standing there…holding a rock for his grave. Jameson’s eyes flashed from him to the grave, and Pete opened his mouth.

“One of the first I couldn’t save,” he said, tasting the irony as it left him. “I come back sometimes, to remind myself of my mistakes.”

Jameson stared at him for another moment, the whole of him, taking in the way that he had started shivering, and after a moment walked up and put the rock on the others, before reaching out. His hand was a warm weight on Pete’s shoulder, and he pulled him closer, “Come on,” he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “You’ve remembered enough of your mistakes. Let’s leave them in the grave where they belong.”

Where Peter belonged.

But Pete would rest in the dirt later, for now Pete had to move.

There was work to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that good people come up when you expect them the least. Also remember that you have the opportunity to be that to others. I love you all~


	6. The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PEEPS! I'm going to get the ball rolling by first giving a lovely shoutout to turtlesundae/NinjaWhoa who created an absolutely delicious fanart of Spider-Noir/Pete inspired by my story and I am. Quite frankly, excited to show you all why, but that will be for probably the next chapter of Burning Matches. With that said~ https://ninjawhoa.tumblr.com/post/615080852174553088/we-dont-pick-the-ballroom-we-just-dance - it's sooooooo cooooooool and I'm absolutely *screaming* please go and check it out and give them some love and appreciation thank you thank you thank you~~
> 
> Anyway!! This chapter is... honestly a lot nicer? Than some of my others? In this story?? With that said, I do still have a few more
> 
> WARNINGS! Johnson is in this and BOI IS HE A FUCKING CREEP THAT I HATE. I'd like for it to take two more chapters to kill him but I can't make promises lol. I didn't even want him to be in this story so that shows how much fucking control I have over anything fuck.  
BULLSHIT MEDICAL STUFF AHOY! This one has someone getting shot. They're fine.  
References to racism, antisemitism, you know the stuff. I reference, we ain't writing shit out. It's still referenced and it's still gross. Everyone go boo in the comments about the KKK because fuck them. 
> 
> I...think that's it in terms of warnings. OH! On the reference side of things!!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTaW1Nacf_Y - this is teeeechnically sort of graphic? But in particular what I found very interesting here was the doctor noting how you have a woman in the other room that stubbed her toe screaming for morphine and the guy that got *shot* is just like 'nah, man, I'm good~" and that's because technically the body releases all sorts of hormones and goes WHAT THE FUCK???? and will like. temporarily shut off pain. IT'S COOL! But also like. Horrifying at the same time. Something else something...OH Rio's hospital is a real location and a real hospital, but everything and everyone in it is fictitious. I'm also considering that like. It might be a level 2 in their universe instead of a level 1 trauma center.  
https://hospitalmedicaldirector.com/what-is-the-difference-between-a-level-1-level-2-and-level-3-trauma-center/ - this shows what the difference is and it's actually kind of cool?  
Ummmm... OH! the recipe Jameson uses iiiiis~ https://www.recipelion.com/Casserole-Recipes/1930s-Kitchen-Sink-Casserole-Food-Video this modified! The fact that it's called the Kitchen Sink kills, but it makes sense. 
> 
> Anyway~ Enjoy!

Jameson’s hand never left Pete’s arm, a warm band that cut through the chill of Pete’s entire body, leading Pete out of the graveyard and to a waiting car. Pete was still slightly dazed, that just woken up from passing out feeling eating into his skull. Jameson seemed to realize how out of it he was, because suddenly he’d moved closer, sliding underneath Pete’s arm in order to support him better, the taller man ducking low in order to hold him upright better. Pete wasn’t sure how to take the warmth pressing against him, only that his body instinctively leaned closer to it, freezing after being out in the cold for so long. Jameson didn’t comment.

Jameson walked them to the car, opening the door for him and putting him in. Pete wondered if Jameson was afraid that he’d run if Jameson just told him to get in.

Pete couldn’t be offended. He honestly thought he might. 

The car had been running for a while, which meant that the interior was still heated, though not much. It was, at least, protected from the snow and the cold outside. Pete found himself leaning back in the seat, unmoving, all the words dead on his tongue. Pete was _exhausted_. He felt a little like he’d been drowning and then finally pulled up for air, but all of his breaths were still just sips of oxygen.

Pete hadn’t gotten to the point where he was denying his very humanity since he’d met the other Spiders. In speaking to them, in all of their talks with him, the way they looked at him, the way they _held_ him…Pete had started to think that maybe they were right. Maybe there was humanity within him after all. Maybe he wasn’t just…

Maybe he wasn’t just a monster.

The first one that had made him think he was more than a monster had been Connors. Connors with his smiles, and his questions, and his gentleness…and his lies, and his hate, and his betrayal. Pete had been welcomed with open arms by Connors after he came back from his venture with the other Spiders, Connors and his wife both treating him with such kindness, accepting him back into their home and asking questions that Pete…hadn’t answered. He hadn’t known why at the time, but having been with the Spiders and their easy acceptance… Suddenly, Pete had found himself wanting to keep that inside, to not speak it where it could be proven not to be.

And then, of course, disaster.

When Pete had gone back home to that betrayal, when he had stood in front of the monster that had been his friend, stared up into black eyes, blood dripping from its teeth, Pete had felt a pain so strong he had known it to be _grief_. Agony crippled him, and Pete had begun to think of himself as Spider yet again. 

How could he deny what he was becoming when it stared him in the face?

Then _they_ had come for him. Then the Spiders had called out to him, and for a moment Peter Benjamin Parker had been pulled out of the blackened water of the Spider, taken his first breath of oxygen since he’d come back… And then been struck, sent flying, and fallen back into blackness.

The irony was not lost to him.

The idea of them, though, the idea of the Spiders, the ones that had treated him like he was human, hadn’t mentioned the wind, hadn’t taken notice of the ways that he was so very _inhuman_… That had been enough to get him to still cling to Peter as though the very name could shield him from what was happening to him, as though it could be a talisman against the dark. But the longer he’d tried the more he’d found that the name tasted bitter.

‘Peter was still dead,’ the thought that he hadn’t been able to shake had strengthened and burned until that was the only thing that he’d known. And now he’d sat before his own grave, and the reason had become clear.

Peter was dead and buried.

Pete had come from that realization the first time, and Pete was still what he clung to in the end, because Pete was what _they_ had called him. Pete could weather the Changes, because Pete was _born_ from the Changes. In the end it would become another part of his mantra –

Pete, age seventeen, Passing-Jew, socialist…monster.

Spider, age seventeen, Passing-Jew, socialist…monster.

It was the same thing. The difference was Pete didn’t have to exhaust himself clinging to the humanity that wasn’t his when he just admitted to being the Spider. To being _it_.

“_Spider_!” Jameson’s voice cut through sharply, a hand on his arm, and Pete was suddenly aware that the man had been talking to him.

“I’m sorry,” Pete said, turning to him, “I was woolgathering.”

“Little wonder,” Jameson frowned. There was a quiet silence for a moment, before Johnson sighed, and then looked at him. “I’ve heard tell that you’ve been having it pretty rough lately.”

“Who’s your source?” Pete asked, his voice tired.

Jameson gave a quiet hum, “I never reveal my sources,” he said finally, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth, pulling it from the box in his breast pocket. Pete had known that, known that Jameson would never reveal his sources, not even under extreme duress. Pete doubted that even he as _Cursed_ would be able to get Jameson to budge.

It was part of the reason why Pete thought so highly of him.

Jameson pulled out another cigarette, offering it to Pete who after a moment, took it. Jameson took his lighter from the same pocket, flicking it and lighting his cigarette before offering the lighter to Pete. Pete felt bad. This was the second time in the same day that Pete was going to be ignoring Rio’s warnings, but it somehow felt wrong to reject it. 

Pete pulled his mask up just enough to put the cigarette in his mouth and light it with Jameson’s lighter, having learned from Sylvia that he wasn’t as unrecognizable as he had thought. The idea of Jameson figuring out who he actually was burned worse than Sylvia’s knowledge.

The smoke filled his lungs and Pete closed his eyes, handing the lighter back, Jameson pocketing it. Pete didn’t think that he’d ever been this close to the other man since the Change. There’d been that hand on his shoulder before, when Jameson had realized Pete was still alive and had come back, but Pete had thought it would be a one-off. He was now realizing that something seemed to have changed in the way that Jameson viewed him. Pete didn’t know what it could be, but Pete wasn’t about to comment on it.

Pete breathed out the smoke, watching the burning tip of his cigarette with a desire to press it hard against his wrist, but refraining.

There was no way he could explain the urge to Jameson, and the thought of _their_ faces if they saw him act on that urge hurt.

The car ride was mostly spent in silence after that initial comment of not revealing sources, and Pete, who had been initially expecting for Jameson to take him to the Bugle, was surprised to find him pulling up to an apartment. Jameson parked in the designated spot, and turned to look at him, his eyes burning.

“I am the sixth floor,” he said, pointing to each window on the way up until he got to the sixth, “in _that_ corner,” he finished, pointing to the window that was his. “You will be up by that window in five minutes or I will come after you. You will drive an old man to get his death of cold, so you had better be up there.”

Pete found himself nodding, too exhausted and too baffled to do anything else. Jameson gave a grunt and a harsh nod, putting his hat back on his head before leaving the car into the snow, trudging towards the apartment building. Pete waited for as long as he felt he could before climbing up to the window indicated, still feeling as though he was in a daze. Not even thirty seconds later, Jameson threw it open, and Pete slipped inside.

The apartment was clean and nicely furnished, here and there elements of something softer than Pete expected. A white doily on the sofa, a woven basket that contained dried flowers.

Honeysuckle and chrysanthemum.

It struck him then, looking around the apartment and seeing more of these touches than he would ever have expected, that maybe Jameson had been married. While he had a feeling that they might have gotten away with that sort of feminine touch in any of the other Spider’s worlds, here? Here it meant something a bit more.

If Jameson noticed where he was looking, of figuring out what Pete was thinking, he made no sign of it, simply began ushering him towards another room of the apartment, throwing a door open to reveal a bathroom with a large rain bath inside, surrounded by pale lace curtains, as well as the expected toilet and sink. There were two towels hanging over the rack, a comb lying next to a brush that Pete didn’t think Jameson would ever use lying on the sink.

The feeling of loss deep inside his gut for someone he didn’t know was strong.

“Take a shower, get yourself warm, there’ll be food when you’re done,” Jameson said before Pete could formulate a reaction, and turned away, walking back towards the kitchen. Pete froze there for a moment, before walking inside, closing the door behind him.

Pete stripped everything off carefully, still moving in a bit of a daze before he moved his clothes to a heating vent to let them warm while he did. He turned the water to as hot as it would go, taking a step inside, and feeling the burn that he had wanted.

It was a momentary shock to his system, and he let out a hiss of breath. His skin screamed, and for a moment he just stood there, letting it happen, and then he turned the heat down. His skin was gray at that point with heat and he found himself idly thinking about Johnson and his thumb caressing his jaw. He found Jameson’s soap and scrubbed himself raw. 

When Pete was finally finished, he dried off on one of the towels as best as he could before going to the clothing he had left on the vent. It was warm by that point and when he slipped everything on, Pete felt like a living person.

He also began to think more about where he was and who he was with.

Jameson had brought him into his apartment. Pete stood there in a steam-filled bathroom for a moment, quietly contemplating the window that led outside, and wondering if he should use it. Then there was a knock on the door.

“You decent, Spider?” he heard Jameson call, and Pete found himself somewhere between amused and flabbergasted.

“I’m coming,” he called back, and found himself moving to the door. Jameson was leaning against the other side of the hallway, a frown on his face as Pete creaked the door open. Pete watched as black eyes flicked from him to the window and then back to him with a raised eyebrow. Pete couldn’t even deny it. His head dipped lower, and he ducked back into the hallway, following Jameson to the kitchenette. There was a wonderful smell coming from the oven and when Jameson pulled out a chair for him, Pete sat obediently.

“I’m getting you something to drink,” Jameson said, his tone brooking no argument. Pete watched as Jameson filled a kettle with water, putting it over one of the gaslight burners on the stovetop and pulled down two mugs from the cupboard, as well as two teabags. Pete wouldn’t have pictured Jameson for the tea sort, but it was admittedly a welcome change to coffee. The brief glugs that Jameson put in each mug of Jack’s famous that he pulled from underneath the counter was something a little more expected. When the kettle began screaming for attention, he poured the mugs full of boiling water and then added two spoonfuls of honey before setting one of them down across from Pete and taking a seat in his own chair. “Let it steep,” Jameson cautioned, frowning when Pete went to take it in his hands.

“It’s warm,” Pete explained softly. Jameson tilted his head back slightly, before giving a little grumble of acknowledgement.

For a moment there was silence between them, not particularly awkward, but not entirely certain either. The only word Pete could think of to describe it was tentative. Their working relationship was shifting, and while Pete couldn’t describe it as particularly ‘close,’ there was something that felt a lot like familiarity there. Pete…Pete thought this might be nice.

Jameson took a breath and blew it out heavily, “I’ve thrown together a casserole. Usually the recipe calls for pork, but I didn’t have it…”

“That’s good,” Pete found himself saying without thought, “because I’m Jewish.”

The moment the words left his lips Pete stiffened, unable to shake the sudden rush of fear after admitting something to a White man that he’d _never_ have done, he thought, before he had met the Spiders. Jameson just made an acknowledging sound, leaning back in his chair. “Then I’m not sorry I don’t have it,” he said simply. “Do you keep Kosher otherwise?”

“No,” Pete answered, feeling the pounding of his heart starting to slow in something that might have been relief. “I can’t…I can’t really afford to.”

“No, I’d suppose you wouldn’t,” Jameson frowned. “I’m sorry.”

Pete was momentarily at a loss, not sure how to respond to that, and then a ding sounded, Jameson making a sound and getting up, opening the oven and pulling out the casserole with a towel to protect his hand. He put it down between them, and Pete was momentarily struck by how much there was, even as Jameson pulled two plates down, sticking a spatula in the casserole and serving himself a decent helping.

“The rest’s yours,” he said, shoving it towards him, and Pete was momentarily stunned. “You can’t be eating enough,” Jameson said, turning defensive when Pete found himself looking up at him in shock. “Stop looking at me like I just gave you a hundred clams, it’s just _casserole_.”

Pete found himself grinning wide behind his mask and pulling the mask up enough to begin to eat. It was delicious, and Pete was able to identify the meat inside as beef, which blended with the potatoes, onion, and…he thought it might be some sort of bean. It also tasted like there was garlic mixed in with the sauce, which Pete thought was some sort of tomato base. Pete would have asked for the recipe back when he still worked in the soup kitchen. It was an easy sort of creation that was filling and wouldn’t take a lot of time to scrounge up ingredients for, and if you had pots of herbs – of which Pete had taken care of plenty, it was easy to season. Pete spotted the small pots kept on the windowsill over the kitchen with a strike of familiarity, and found his focus slowly drifting back to the meal and the man sitting in front of him eating his own portion.

Jameson had invited him in his home, was currently feeding him, and had given no reaction at Pete’s slip that he was Jewish, outside of asking if he kept Kosher. In retrospect, it wasn’t surprising at all. Jameson helped and coordinated several people from all walks of life. Jameson had bought some pictures from Robbie, he worked with several negro children in his network that ran errands around the city and gave him information. Pete’s fear, that initial reaction of panic that had come through after he had mentioned his Jewishness…Pete suddenly felt that he’d done him wrong. It wasn’t right.

“I…” he started softly, hesitating, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Jameson asked, blinking as he looked up at him.

“I just…I never told you…” he hesitated, “that I was…”

“That you were Jewish?” Jameson interrupted, an eyebrow rising, “Fuck, Spider, that’s hardly something I would have expected you to disclose. I’m aware of your position in the world just as I’m aware of mine,” he said, frowning. “If anything, I’m…” he hesitated, “I’m honored you trusted me enough to tell me. I’m not going to betray that. It stays with me.”

“Yes,” Pete said, “and that’s…why I’m sorry. I knew that, I’d…” he trailed off under the heat of the glare that Jameson was suddenly giving him, the way that mouth tugged into a severe frown. “Thank you,” he said instead, and Jameson gave an immediate,

“You’re welcome, now stop apologizing and get back to eating.”

“Yes, sir,” Pete managed, his mouth pulling into something like a smile, Jameson huffing as he went back to his own meal.

The rest of the food was eaten in silence, Pete surprised to find that he was as hungry as he was. Though, he had pretty much blacked out in a graveyard…maybe it wasn’t as surprising as he thought it was.

When Pete could eat no more without the possibility of getting himself either sick or simply hurting himself he pushed away the dish, and turned back to the tea, which had cooled to a decent temperature that wouldn’t burn the hell out of him. He figured Rio would be proud, and then the thought of her made him bow his head.

“Alright, Spider,” Jameson sighed, moving the leftovers to the side. “Tell me. What’s been happening?”

For a moment Pete thought of not telling him, and then, before Pete even really knew he would do it, he found himself talking. Pete found himself spilling everything about being recruited by Daredevil and Luke Cage to infiltrate the Klan, including what he’d been doing since he had been accepted. He spoke of the terrible pain he felt when given such kindness from people that would hate him should they know what he was, and he spoke of the realization that Daredevil and Luke Cage still didn’t trust him, and finally, softly, “you can’t tell anyone of this, you can’t Jameson, you can’t.”

“I won’t,” Jameson assured him, “tell me, what can’t I tell anyone, what’s happened?”

“Our financial backer is Tony Stark,” Pete managed, “and I gave him information a week ago…that would have saved Sylvia’s restaurant, that would have saved those Docks…_and he didn’t pass on my information_.”

Jameson straightened up deliberately. “Why?”

“Because he…he couldn’t figure out how the information would have gotten out. He didn’t think that we could have or would have talked about what happened, that we would have spent time making sure that those that could have been affected were spared. And because he couldn’t figure out how to do it…he didn’t pass it on.”

“What a…” Jameson trailed off, before slamming his tea back like a shot, and pulling down more alcohol. It was bourbon this time, Pete realized, and when Jameson poured himself an actual shot Pete was mildly shocked. “Stark was your handler and he didn’t even utilize your information?”

“He didn’t,” Pete confirmed, “and …and he made a deal. With Cage and Daredevil. His support for…for our silence. If we…if word got out that Stark was involved, that it was him that caused those businesses to be burned down because he didn’t use my information…he’d drop us. We’d lose our support. I don’t know what he’d do afterwards.”

Jameson cursed a blue streak, slamming back his shot of bourbon and pouring another. “Drink that, Spider,” Jameson said, gesturing to his tea and Pete found himself following directions. When he was finished Jameson poured him another shot. “You are going to drink that,” he said, “and when you’re done drinking, you’re going to sleep, and I’m going to make you a massive breakfast in the morning. After you’ve eaten, you’re going to go to Stark and punch him in the mouth for me.”

Pete found his mouth pulling into a smile, a weak thing, but something he found he couldn’t help. “I don’t think I can get away with that.”

“It’s bullshit,” Jameson snarled, and gestured for him to drink. Pete did so, and Jameson poured him another shot. “That’s bullshit,” he hissed, “it’s cowardice,” Jameson spat, “_cowardice_! And I _hate_ cowards. If he wasn’t prepared to take the consequences of his actions, then he shouldn’t have gotten involved. Letting you take the fall for it… It’s disgusting. How are you going to be able to help them if they don’t trust you to help them? It’s _madness_. It’s like he’s deliberately crippled you. How can you do anything to help anyone if they won’t believe you?”

“It’s been difficult,” Pete admitted quietly. “I’m having to report directly to Cage and Daredevil now because I’ve been told some of the people that I tell to pass the information along won’t do it, and that causes delays…”

“It’s not your fault, Spider,” Johnson said suddenly, and Pete found himself looking up at Jameson in surprise. Jameson frowned at him, “it’s not your fault,” he stressed. “You declared the Klan an enemy of the Spider, and so far, I’ve heard tell that you’ve made good on that when you can. Stark’s choices do not reflect on your abilities as a spy. You didn’t start a war that had already been started.”

Pete found his head bowing, for a moment completely unable to respond, something swirling in his chest that he couldn’t identify. Jameson took hold of his gloved hand, squeezing.

“It’s not your fault,” Jameson repeated. “A spy is only as good as the handlers allow him to be, and it seems to me like you’re being cut off at the knees at every turn. I would like to offer assistance in whatever way I can, even if it’s just a hot meal and a shower. Do you have somewhere you’re staying?”

“I do,” Pete agreed, “Stark lent me a house, so it’s out of the snow…it’s just filled with bugs, I’m being watched all the time, and…”

Jameson was on his feet in an instant, pounding his fist on the table. “That’s disgusting! That’s a violation of privacy and a breach of trust, and if he’s going that far then I think you were kneecapped from the beginning. That’s an _outrage_, Spider.” He frowned. “You’ll sleep here in peace. No eyes on you, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Pete agreed.

“Alright. Now come on,” he said, and clasped Pete’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s get you set up for bed. We have a guestroom, you’ll get it to yourself, no cameras, no microphones, nothing. Just you, four walls, a window, and a bed. The window has blinds.”

“Sounds heavenly,” Pete found himself saying, and he was mildly startled at the fact that it wasn’t sarcastic. Jameson frowned, even as he ushered Pete towards the spare room. Jameson frowned at what he was wearing and then frowned at the bed.

“I can wash the sheets, just take your damn boots off. If you want to sleep in your mask that’s fine, but I promise I won’t enter without knocking.”

Pete found, to his surprise, that he believed him.

Pete was pushed into the room gently, before the door was closed behind him. He stood there for a moment, completely still, and then slipped his boots off before walking over to the bed in his socks. They were some of the socks that Rio had bought him, and so they held that slight tinge of offness that the black from that world always had. He found himself staring at them for a moment, trying to guess what colors they had been made out of, what combination, and eventually deciding that he didn’t know. Pete walked over to the window and closed the curtains carefully, before finally making his way to the twin bed that was in the middle of the room, a lamp to one side resting on a bedside table and a clock that proclaimed the time to be 10:26 pm.

Pete stared at that for a moment, before finally throwing the blankets back. He took his coat off, and slid into the bed, covering himself up not just with the blankets but the coat itself. For a moment he lay there enjoying the feeling of stillness, of the fact that there were no eyes on him for once since this entire thing had started, and then he closed his eyes and knew no more till morning.

* * *

Pete woke up to the smell of eggs, as well as…Pete recognized the smell of bacon from Robbie’s breakfasts, and for a moment he felt a pang deep in his chest, and then he forced himself to roll out of bed. His body was slightly stiff in the way that it usually was after he slept on a bed recently, but the warmth that had come from it was worth it.

Remembering what Jameson had said about washing the sheets he stripped the bed, putting the sheets in a pile on the foot of the bed and stretching himself out. That done, Pete made his way to where he had placed his boots, sliding them on carefully and thudding them into the place. Making his way out he found that Jameson had set up two spots on the table, mugs next to each of the knives and forks that had been placed to either side of the plate. He was currently flipping the bacon onto a plate, and he turned to Spider with a nod.

“Spider! I hope you don’t mind me eating pork. It’s my usual treat on Sundays,” Jameson said by way of explanation.

“I have no issue with you eating it,” Pete assured, shaking his head. “I’m just not interested in eating it myself. I have…_had_ friends that were goys. I’m not about to police your diet.”

Jameson grinned at him, but the smile was slightly worn. He’d caught the use of past tense, Pete had to figure, but didn’t do anything to correct it. “Good to hear it,” he said with a nod. “I’m happy you got out here, I was just about to come and wake you up,” he brought the serving bowls out from the oven where they had apparently been left to keep warm, over to the table and Pete saw that he had a serving of potatoes as well as scrambled eggs there. “I cooked the bacon after everything else, I didn’t want to contaminate the pan.”

Pete was momentarily touched, a feeling burning bright in his chest that he couldn’t quite recognize. “Thank you.”

“I have cooked bacon in it before, I’ll admit, so I hope that’s not…too much of an issue.” 

“No, no, that’s…thank you for taking the time.”

Jameson gave a nod, turning the oven off and sitting down in front of him. He took a serving of the potatoes and scrambled eggs and then pushed the rest of it towards Pete. “Coffee?” he asked, standing up once again and pouring out a mug for himself.

“Black, please,” Pete agreed, and Jameson poured him a mug. Jameson took it black as well and Pete was momentarily struck by a silly, but very real amusement. Jameson was the only other one that he’d met that took it black, at least recently. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Jameson waved off. “The potatoes are a recipe from my mother, so you better appreciate them.”

“I absolutely do,” Pete assured, taking a bite and finding them to be wonderfully seasoned and delightfully crisp.

“Alright,” Jameson frowned after they had finished eating, looking at him directly. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to go into that place with those fucks in your position. Frankly I don’t want to. But I want to remind you that you have an ally here. If you just want to get out of the snow without eyes on you then you come to my window and you knock. If you do it after seven, I will be home, and that’s a promise. Until this is over you have somewhere you can go.”

“…Thank you,” Pete said, momentarily at a loss for words beyond that. Jameson snorted, waving it away.

“You’re putting yourself in more danger than people know. The least I can do is make sure you’re properly cared for. Besides, anyone out to stick it to those bastards is worth it. I’ve got a reasonable stockpile of food and I am not hurting for money, so it’s not an issue. Don’t worry about causing me difficulties, you got it?”

“I got it,” Pete agreed, with a nod.

“Good,” Jameson nodded. “I wish you luck, Spider,” he said, his voice gentle. “You’ve got a long hard road, keep your head up, know you have people that care about your wellbeing.”

Pete was unsure what to say, and so said nothing. He did nod, though, and made his way to the window, Jameson following him.

“Wreck some of those fuckers really good for me, got it?” Jameson commanded, and Pete found himself grinning under the mask, before nodding. Jameson pushed the window open and Pete hesitated, leaning forward to the point where he could feel for prying eyes, and finally dove out of it.

It was the nicest morning he’d had in a while, and Pete was momentarily filled with a sort of contentment he hadn’t felt in a long while. He moved to Harlem first. He knew that he had a report to make and he wanted to do it as soon as possible.

Pete was surprised to find that it wasn’t just Cage that he found, it was Daredevil, and it was probably more accurate to say that Daredevil found him. Pete perched on top of a building, waiting for the two men to approach, not feeling like getting much closer. The crunch of snow underfoot as the two men approached him was quick, and Pete was immediately on edge, lowering himself closer to the ground.

“Spider!” came the call from Cage, who immediately walked up to him as Daredevil perched on the edge of the building. “What happened, where were you? You never returned to the house last night.”

“I…” Pete hesitated, “got tired of being watched,” he said finally, which was true enough.

“I can understand that,” Cage said softly, frowning. “But surely you have to understand why it’s necessary. Should you have guests we would need to watch them.”

“I’m not going to have guests up to my _bedroom_,” Pete returned with a low hiss.

“Your _bedroom_?” Daredevil repeated, and to Pete’s surprise he stood up from the edge, walking closer to him. He’d added a coat to usual outfit, a medium-length one that didn’t threaten to trip him up. “What do you _mean_ your bedroom, Spider?”

“There’s surveillance there, too,” Pete answered, turning his attention to him. “The only thing without cameras is the bathroom.”

“I took Stark for an eccentric, not a _voyeur_,” Daredevil hissed.

“That’s inexcusable,” Cage agreed. Pete was surprised, his head tilting slightly.

“I didn’t know that you hadn’t been aware.”

“We would have never gone along with it,” Cage frowned. “I agree with you, I can’t imagine who you’d invite up to your bedroom, and frankly I think that’s an insult to you that you don’t deserve.”

“We’ll get rid of them,” Daredevil said, frowning. “I’ll help you locate them if you need it. I could hear them, but I had not realized that they were that close. Admittedly I was otherwise occupied, but that’s still no real excuse. But you should not have slept outside,” Daredevil stressed, and there was a real concern, and a real chastisement in his voice. Pete found his head tilting.

“I’ve slept in the winter before,” Pete disagreed. “It’s not what I would call the worst arrangement. Why are you suddenly concerned?”

“If you catch your death of cold then what are we supposed to do?” Cage asked. Pete’s head tilted.

“I actually doubt that that’s something that would happen,” Pete said finally. “Like I suggested before, this isn’t the first time.”

“It should be the last, particularly with a _house_,” Cage stressed, glaring at him. 

Pete gave a soft sound, before tilting his head. “I’ll do my best.”

“Do you have anything to report to us?” Cage asked, bringing them right back around to business.

“I visited the home of the recruiter, Sylvester Wright yesterday,” Pete answered. “His family is…interesting. I’d almost recommend keeping tabs on his daughter.”

“Why so?” Cage asked.

“I don’t think she’s entirely on board with what her father is doing,” Pete answered with a frown that they couldn’t see. “The way that she was reacting to what he was saying, I don’t think she appreciated his implications.” Pete hesitated. “You haven’t…you haven’t heard of men being paid to attack people, have you?” Pete asked.

“Strange question,” Cage frowned. “Why?”

“Wright was attacked by a group of negro men in a park. The way he talked it was almost like they were sent to beat him _specifically_. The fact that he claimed to be denying the advances of the local Klan up until they attacked strikes me as…very convenient.” Pete frowned. “I also don’t think he was lying to me. I’ve got a bit of a…sense for when people are lying, and he was just about as serious as the grave and what’s in it.”

“You think they targeted him on purpose,” Cage whispered.

“Wright is _loaded_,” Pete said simply. “I don’t know what it is that he does and how he makes his money, but he’s got a massive plot of land, not to mention the house itself… They had barely ripe tomatoes still.”

“What the _fuck_,” Daredevil hissed.

“To be fair they are pretty easy to grow provided you have access to enough heat and light,” Pete frowned slightly to himself.

“You know about growing plants?” Cage asked, and there was amusement there.  


“We all need food, Cage,” Pete frowned. Cage gave an open-ended shrug of agreement. “But with that money he becomes a mighty attractive mark for something like the Klan. If they can pay someone to attack him, prove that the negroes are what the Klan says they are, begging your pardon of course,” Cage waved him on, “but if they can do that, then you get a very powerful ally. To make matters worse… Wright is genuine. He believes what he’s saying, and if you can inject that sort of belief it becomes very appealing to others that might not have any other contact.”

“Segregation was one of the worst laws they could have imposed,” Cage rumbled quietly. “I see what you’re saying, Spider, though I don’t like the implications…”

“I don’t either,” Pete frowned. “Worst thing of all is the fact that I can’t blame whoever might have taken the bait. He killed one of them anyway before the coppers broke it up. Conveniently.”

“Shit,” Cage hissed. “I see what you’re saying,” he frowned, pacing. “I don’t like the _implications_,” he repeated, almost hissing the word.

“Agreed,” Pete sighed.

“Thank you,” Cage said finally, frowning at him, “for bringing the possibility to my attention. Do you have anything planned?”

“I’m considering doing some actual hunting tonight…” Pete frowned, looking off towards where he knew the Klan was skulking in the subway. “Shake them up a little. I wonder if I can get them to congregate. I’m not going to mount an attack on their actual base, but it might be interesting to see if I can pick off one or two… It’s been difficult to get a good understanding of who all is a part of this. Their numbers keep changing and everyone’s in masks.” 

“If you can get them to react let us know,” Cage frowned. “We might be able to use that to our advantage.”

“See if they circle the wagons,” Daredevil grinned. There was a moment after that where Pete couldn’t tell what they wanted from him, obviously waiting for something, and so, lamely, almost, Pete finished with a quiet,

“That’s all I have.”

“It’s good,” Cage said. “There’s definitely some information that we can use. Happy hunting tonight, Spider. If you encounter something big, _remember the list we gave you_. Get the information to us! I don’t mind you running wild, just make sure that we can mitigate the consequences. I’ll talk to Stark about the cameras.”

“Thank you,” Pete said, trying to put all of the nebulous emotion deep into his soul into his voice, hoping that it was something slightly positive. They nodded to him. Daredevil thumped his shoulder once, the sudden contact surprising and almost leading to Pete retaliating, but he recognized it for the friendly gesture it was meant to be.

Pete stood on that rooftop for a moment after both men had left wondering idly what on earth it had meant.

And then he went for ‘home,’ he planned one last visit with the Klan before he went stalking for prey.

* * *

Pete walked into the hideout pulling his hood on his head, joining the swish of fabric as he walked among the congregated. He knew that his voice would out him at some point, the scar tissue made it distinct, but he also knew it would be easier to listen to what some were up to.

It also made the immediate connection of Pete being someone who was listening to their plans. He couldn’t get among some of the higher ups, but he definitely heard some of the plans the others were talking. A burning here, a branding there… The casual way they discussed what they would do sickened him to his core. As though they weren’t talking about real people, as though they weren’t discussing the terrible branding and twisting of a human being.

Treating a human like they were cattle.

It made him _sick_.

Pete hated them so much it made him ill with it, but it wasn’t something he could avoid. The Jewish jokes, the soft words about what they’d do about… Pete closed his eyes against it, blocking it out. It wasn’t information that he needed anyway. Pete already knew what the Klan thought about him and his people.

“Williams,” came a sudden voice, and Pete felt dread in the pit of his stomach.

Pete turned to look at the hooded man that Pete knew to be Johnson. “Sir,” he said, giving a nod.

“No need to be so formal!” Johnson said, and his eyes were smiling. “Tell me, I had been meaning to…ah, it’s so loud in here, is it not? Would you accompany me elsewhere?”

Pete acquiesced because he had no choice and all the while his heart thudded into his ribs. Johnson led him into what had to be a meeting for the others that were of higher rank. It was furnished with frankly lovely furniture that was the deepest and yet somehow warmest gray that Pete had ever seen, a long table framed with several chairs, a patterned tapestry of black and white spreading the length of the table. Pete noticed all of this, focused on it entirely, in order to avoid looking at the man that had closed the door behind them.

“Williams,” Johnson called out, his voice holding that loathsome warmth that reminded him of a maggot in rotten flesh. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, and Pete turned to him, removing the mask as Johnson did. “I haven’t seen you here masked in a while; I don’t believe.”

“The well-wishes, while nice, can get tiring,” Pete said, ducking his head, knowing he had found a patch of thin ice he hadn’t anticipated. “I was trying to avoid it, if only for a little while.”

“Quite understandable,” Johnson said, frowning. “I’ve heard that you’ve had a lot of poor luck since you joined us.”

“Yes,” Pete agreed softly. “As I told Wright, I don’t know that I would have been knighted if I knew it would lead to that kind of jealousy.”

“Yes,” Johnson agreed, laughter in his voice. “You were hurt rather bad, I heard… May I see them?”

Pete hesitated, for a moment balling his hands into fists, before he finally stepped forward, and pulled his sleeves back. It had been ten days. The scars that were left from the constant opening and resewing were nasty, some of his worst. Jagged and ugly, they broke through re-bruised flesh, the bruises that he was starting to reapply to himself in order to hide his healing. Yet another way he was forced to cause harm to himself in order to hide what he was.

Pete was expecting the hands that took hold of his arms, the way delicate fingers traced the scars gently. He was expecting, too, the lurch of his stomach as they traced up his arm.

“Such pity,” he hummed. “Skin like yours should remain unbroken. But it has of course, been broken several times before.”

Pete was expecting the thumb that slipped up the scar from his chin to his lips, pressing against them even as his hand moved to cup his jaw, and Pete was filled with the urge to bite and spit and hiss. He did none of those things, he just let Johnson press that thumb against his mouth, keeping himself _still_. Johnson raised an eyebrow, a smirk sliding across his face, and finally pulled his hand back.

Pete knew what he was dealing with then. Knew that it wasn’t as much about attraction as it was about power. Knew that it would be something he would do as long as Pete would let him. It would also continue to escalate until Johnson felt him well and truly under his control.

Pete had a moment where his stomach filled with a leaden weight that he thought he could recognize as dread, and then Johnson took a step back.

“Tell me,” he said finally, “did you have any plans on Friday? Would you be willing to meet my wife and I for dinner?”

Pete wanted to ask if his wife knew of his appetites, knew of what Johnson did to the young men under his command, because Pete knew this sort of man. Johnson was a predator, and he would prey upon anyone underneath him.

“Yes,” he finally said, “I’d enjoy that.”

“Good,” Johnson smiled, “my wife would like to pass on her condolences for your wife. She is also…somewhat of a matchmaker, my Stella. She would be able to find you a wonderful replacement.”

The disgust that Pete felt was so strong it rose up in his throat like bile. “Too soon,” Pete whispered. “And I would not wish for them to be a _replacement_…”

“Of course,” Johnson soothed softly, smiling at him gently. “It was a poor choice of words…please forgive me.”

“Yes, I forgive you,” Pete agreed, because he also knew how to handle men like this. He knew that the more that Johnson thought he could get out of him, the more he would be willing to get close enough to use him. The closer he would get; the more Pete could take from him.

And above all Pete knew that, in the end…

Johnson was not the one that had the real power here.

“Thank you,” Johnson bowed to him, smiling his smile of rotten flesh and hate, and stepped back. “I will pick you up from your home at six sharp on Friday.”

“I will be there,” Pete agreed with a nod.

“Good,” Johnson smiled, and backed out of the room, leaving Pete alone.

Pete took a moment to compose himself, his hands balling into fists that made his knuckles crack, and then finally pulled his mask on and left.

He’d gotten the information he wanted anyway.

* * *

That night Pete was ruthless. He picked off the ones he thought he could, the ones on the border of Harlem and Hell’s Kitchen, and if he was just the tiniest bit liberal with taking hits, then that was just because he was distracted.

Pete did not _want_ to go to dinner with Johnson, and he was still feeling slightly…floaty.

After he was done, after he had strung up four other men and left others in dumpsters where they belonged, he found Cage and gave a quiet report, knowing Daredevil would have heard him. Cage laughed until he was almost sick when he told him about the ones in the trash.

“We’ll take care of it,” Cage said softly, nodding. “The cameras should be taken out of your room. Daredevil took care of it, we decided to circumvent Tony. If he wants to circumvent us, he can take his own medicine.” Cage clapped a hand to his arm, and blinked, pulling it away to reveal black from a wound that Pete hadn’t even noticed.

Pete jumped off the roof. 

Pete swung his way back home and the more he swung the more he realized how much it _pulled_. It ached in his shoulder, in his back and along his side, and he began to recognize that he was hurt a lot more than he had thought. When he finally stumbled into his window, his sense reaching for anything to tell him that he was spotted and finding nothing, Pete was beginning to recognize that there was blood seeping into his coat.

Pete slowly dropped his coat to the ground and found that his vest was saturated with blood.

That was the moment when Pete realized he really hadn’t been as aware as he had thought.

Pete had heard the gun go off when he had picked off the last man, but he hadn’t actually felt the bullet pierce him.

This though, this pain, this _pull_? Pete knew what he was feeling now. He knew the feeling of bleeding like this, and he knew the pull and ache of a gunshot wound.

Pete touched his shoulder, hissing quietly, his body having relaxed enough to ache as soon as he recognized the wound was there the minute Cage had found the blood on his skin. It was one thing that he hadn’t heard Peter talk about but had begun to recognize in himself.

Pete’s body compartmentalized pain until he registered the injury. Pete had recognized that he had a higher tendency to compress after high stress, and in particular after Pete had gotten that…detached with his own humanity. When he stopped caring. Pete started feeling at his shoulder, trying to decide whether it had gone through organ or bone. Pete decided finally that it likely hadn’t, but that still left him bleeding and frankly in a lot of pain.

Pete lifted an arm that felt like deadweight, his shoulder screaming at him, agony pulsing through him to the beat of his heart, even as he pressed his fingers to the goober, calling up the holographic display. Before Pete quite knew what he was doing, he had pressed the button to call Rio. Pete let his arm flop to his side, bringing his right arm up to put pressure on the wound, trying to decide with touch alone whether the bullet was somewhere he could dig it out. The sudden hollow call of Rio’s voice made him pause.

“_Pete? Pete, what’s wrong_?” she asked, and Pete was mildly confused by the hollow tininess to her voice, but he decided he didn’t care enough to question.

“I…I need help,” Pete managed, “I got hurt…it’s _bad_, and I…don’t think I can take care of it alone.”

“_Okay, okay, Pete, listen, I’m at the hospital, you have to come to me, do you know where the Maimonides Medical Center is? It’s 4802 10th Avenue in Brooklyn, do you think you’re able to get there? Or…or, Pete, _please, can you get here_?_”

Pete hesitated, forced himself to roll his shoulders, fighting through the spark of agony, and answered, “Yes. I should be less than five minutes.”

Later, after Pete had been stitched up and had snuck out of the hospital, he would recognize that the blood loss had gotten to him, that if Pete were in his right mind, he would have never braved an unknown hospital.

But it was not a Pete that was thinking very clearly when he opened a portal, and that did not change in the void, nor when he fell from the portal over Miles’ school, as it was a known location that was closer to the address given. It was a slowly blacking out Pete that had taken just enough time to spray webbing over the wound to try and slow the bleeding. It was a Pete that, when he finally made it to the Medical Center - swinging into a waiting room that was mercifully empty - promptly fell to his knees.

There was a sound of shock, followed by loud voices, and then a voice he knew was calling out, breaking through the rest of the unknowns. Pete looked up, feeling dazed, and caught sight of a few nurses running towards him, only one that he knew.

Rio fell to her knees before him, and Pete hesitated, before finally, quietly,

“Help me?”

“He’s one of the Spiders!” was called out, and that was when Pete knew that they were becoming more well-known, and the strand of webbing blowing in their doorway was probably why they immediately made the connection, the thoughts vaguely connected in the hazy way that he wouldn’t remember later. Pete wondered idly how the rest of the Spiders were doing, how they _were_…and then he found hands starting to touch him, and Pete let out a hiss he couldn’t help, scuttling backwards and away, for a moment forgetting where he was and who he was with.

“It’s okay,” Rio assured quietly, and Pete’s hissing stuttered slightly, his body tensing. 

“It’s okay,” another voice repeated, “we’re going to help you, I promise.”

“It’s okay, you can trust us,” Rio said again, and Pete finally allowed himself to relax, which turned into more of a collapse, and then Rio and some other person were catching him and moving him onto something that he realized was a gurney.

“Ugh,” he heard, “what _is_ this black stuff, why is it all over him?”

“Black as blood,” Pete giggled, and he heard the sudden gasp of realization, his head rolling over to stare at the unknown woman next to him who had curly red-hair and was staring at him with horrified green eyes. Her nametag, which Pete squinted at, said Peggy. “Alternate universe,” he said softly, and grinned in a way she couldn’t see. Pete saw just enough of Peggy’s expression to see that her eyes had widened, and her mouth had dropped open, and then he knew no more.

Pete came in and out of consciousness throughout the hospital stay, and every time he drifted back into consciousness Rio was there, hushing him, coaxing him back into the bed when he tried to get out of it, reassuring him that it would be okay whenever he started to panic at the strange hands on him.

When Pete finally managed to regain consciousness and keep it, it was to the sound of beeping. He had a momentary feeling of horror deep in his chest, and then he became conscious of a voice calling.

“Spider, you’re okay, you’re in the hospital,” the voice, warm and gentle and soft said, and Pete looked down to see a negro woman at the foot of his bed. She stood ramrod straight, her hair in a series of woven braids kept close to her head and her scrubs stained in red and black. His blood and the blood of someone else. “Are you actually conscious this time?” she asked, and there was a tired sort of amusement in her voice, reflected in the curve of red-painted lips. Pete went tense for a moment, doing a mental checklist that cumulated in him realizing that he still had his mask and goggles, and while it seemed as though they had opened his vest and there was heavy bandaging on his shoulder, they hadn’t removed the rest of his shirt. Just cut it off of him in that spot.

Pete wondered idly if Rio had anything to do with that.

“Yes,” Pete finally croaked, reflexively swallowing as he tried to bring moisture to his throat. “How…long…?”

“Have you been unconscious?” she asked, “off and on for about an hour, maybe. Don’t worry, the room you’re in is private, and we didn’t touch your mask. We tried to do minimal damage to your uniform, but I don’t know if we really succeeded. It’s more durable than spandex, we had to fight with it a little. We were able to remove your vest, but the shirt we had to cut at.”

“Why…?” Pete started.

“We helped the other Spider-Man,” she said, a smile on her mouth, a knowing look on her face. “We know the drill. You’re…different, but you’re not _that_ different. You take care of the city; the hospitals take care of you.”

Pete’s sluggish brain tried to piece all of this together, swallowing heavily. He couldn’t quite understand it. A relationship with the city where he could fall into trouble and it would try and bail him out… It was nearly unthinkable, and so his brain wound up shifting away from that before he could grapple with it. His eyes listed, and finally drifted to her nametag which read Marissa.

“Marissa?” Pete repeated softly, mostly to himself.

“That’s me,” Marissa responded with a nod. “You lost a lot of blood, so don’t be afraid if you’re still dizzy. We didn’t want to risk a transfusion. Given your body and the way your blood is…frankly the way it’s colored, combined with your mutation…we were worried that we would cause issues. We weren’t sure if we would help or your body would reject it. Your mutation is a little more…_intense_ than our Spider-Man’s was, and it’s unlikely you would have handled going into anaphylactic shock, or otherwise seizing should the transfusion have gone wrong.”

Pete made a questioning hum, for a moment unable to figure out how she knew about his mutation, and she pointed to the other side of the room, where clear evidence of Pete’s webbing drifted. “Oh, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed.

“It’s no issue,” Marissa waved off. “You were surprised, and no one was hurt. You reacted pretty well when we cried out in alarm. Stopped what you were doing and let us talk you back onto the hospital bed.”

Pete nodded slowly.

“Now,” she said frowning at him. “If _I_ were _you_, when I snuck out of that window there, I wouldn’t use my webbing, or, barring being unable to get where I need to without it, _I would not use my left arm_. We were unable to remove the bullet but given your healing it should come out soon. It got _very_ close to embedding into your shoulder-blade, but it didn’t quite make it. It _did_ nick a main artery, which is why you bled so much, but your body was already trying to seal it before we got to it. I gotta say, that’s the one thing I wouldn’t mind having, your healing…”

“It can be rather handy,” Pete managed.

“I bet,” she smiled. “Now, remember what I said about not swinging. You need to let your arm heal or you’ll have worse problems later. You ruin my stitches; I’ll be very upset.”

“You stitched me up?” Pete asked, blinking.

“Of course,” Marissa answered with a raised eyebrow, “as the attending surgeon that’s my job.”

“_You’re_ the attendin’ surgeon?” Pete repeated.

“Yes, is that a problem?”

Pete was momentarily stuck for a response, his brain sluggish, not understanding the way her tone had shifted slightly. “No,” he finally said, “I think that’s pretty awesome.”

“Oh!” she said in surprise. There was a long pause for a moment as she stared at him, before sighing softly. “You’re from an alternate universe?” she asked softly, her eyebrow rising slightly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded.

“Hmm,” Marissa tilted her head back slightly as she looked at him. “You from an alternate reality in the _past_?”

“I…” Pete hesitated. “How?”

Marissa grinned at him. “Outside of the accent, the fedora, the fact that you’re wearing suspenders on your socks?”

“Aw, now that’s just mean,” Pete said softly.

Marissa laughed, “yes, well… It’s not that hard to figure out. I’m glad that you think it’s wonderful…I…honestly I would have expected…”

“I’m Jewish,” Pete said softly, and Marissa blinked, turning her kohl-framed eyes towards him, her mouth pulling into an oh of shock. “I’m Jewish, I’m not…” Pete didn’t know why his eyes were blurring, didn’t know why he felt as though he was drowning. “I’m just white-_passing_…”

“_Oh_,” she said softly. Marissa hesitated for a moment before taking his right hand in hers gently. “Stay strong. The dawn breaks for you, too.”

“Thank you,” Pete whispered, and for a moment there was silence.

“Now,” Marissa finally said, clearing her throat and wiping at her eyes gently, taking a step back. “I’m going to leave, okay? And if you ever need our help again you know where to come. Our nurses were all really looking forward to seeing you, so you might want to hurry if you mean to sneak out of here quickly. The windows are unlocked. _Do not use that arm_!” She turned and began walking to the door, turning around one last time, “and Spider…_good luck_.” And then she pushed her way out and was gone.

Pete was expecting for the woman who snuck in a little bit after, Rio coming up to him with her hair pulled into a thick braid and her eyes filled with worry. He was expecting the way that her hands clasped his right one, pulling it towards her chest, ducking down so she was closer to him.

“Pete, baby,” she said so softly, her voice so hushed, “Pete, what happened? What’s _been_ happening? Why haven’t you been answering anyone’s messages?”

“Hero stuff,” Pete responded tiredly, knowing he couldn’t give voice to what he had been doing, knowing as he stared at her that it would _break_ him. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I…” he trailed off. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You’ve worried absolutely _everyone_, I…” Rio hesitated. “Pete, you _swung_ here?” she asked, and there was the beginnings of anger in her voice, the beginnings of something _harsh_.

“You asked if I could get here,” Pete answered with a shrug that twinged his shoulder. “I got here.”

“Pete, I…I meant if it wouldn’t hurt you, I would have found someone to get you, maybe Jeff could have taken you here…”

“I got here,” Pete repeated, his voice low.

Rio sighed, lowering her head. “You did, Pete, I just…I wish you were more careful. You could have…you could have made it so much worse than it was.”

“Possibly,” Pete hesitated. “Why did she call me Spider?” he asked.

“I didn’t tell her if that’s what you’re asking,” Rio said softly, smiling. “Marissa…she was one of the first surgeons to successfully bully our Spider-Man into a hospital after he was seriously injured. She’s been doing this a while, and we’ve been helping her. Doctor patient confidentiality being what it is, we also remove all traces of blood and DNA, as well as keep everything we see in house. As it is, though, since there’s suddenly become so many Spiders, she’s been referring to everyone as Spider until she learns their more proper codename.”

Pete nodded at that, before coming up with another question: “Does Mr. Davis know that you were helping Spider-Man?” Pete asked, his head tilted. “The way Miles tells it he never really liked him…”

“My husband may not have _liked_ him, but he never wanted him to _die_. He also understood where I had to stand on the matter and was behind me all the way.” Rio hesitated. “I know, Pete, I _know_ that you’re not fond of cops, and you’re not likely to trust my husband very quickly, but…please, baby…_please_ trust me when I say that my husband is not a bad man. He never wished death upon him, and he doesn’t wish it upon anyone else.”

Pete hesitated, before swallowing heavily, “I know,” Pete whispered, “that he’s probably better than I’m giving him credit for…I just… It’s _hard_. He sets my spidersense off and I just…I’m having trouble getting around it.”

“I understand,” Rio said softly, “you know he’s rather fond of you.”

“_Why_?”

Rio laughed; the sound soft. “_Lots_ of reasons,” she said gently. “I know that you’re having trouble seeing it, but there’s a lot of things to like about you.”

Pete’s head tilted slightly, and he finally gave a small shrug. “If you say so.”

“I do, and what’s more…_I believe it_,” she smiled at him with all the warmth of a summer’s day and looked to the door. “Will you _really_ not tell me what’s been happening?” she asked softly.

Pete shook his head, feeling that fear lurch up in his chest. “I can’t. I…please, please don’t tell them,” Pete hissed as another feeling lurched into his chest and sat on his lungs, a sudden burst of adrenaline as he reached out towards her with his right hand, taking hold of hers.

“Tell them what?” Rio asked, “tell who?”

“The Spiders, you…please, you can’t… You can’t tell them that I…please don’t tell them I was here, I can’t…I don’t want to…”

“Pete, Pete, it’s…it’s okay, I won’t…” Rio said softly, reaching out and moving his fedora away to pet at his hair through his mask. She hesitated, before, “You remember that doctor-patient thing, it applies to you, too, and…and if you really don’t want it…”

“_Please_, Rio,” Pete whispered.

“Okay…” Rio agreed softly, backing away from him, and straightening his fedora. “You better get out of here before some of the other nurses come in. I managed to draw the longest straw, so I came in here first.”

“Straw?” Pete asked, his head tilting.

Rio pulled a straw out of her pocket and gave him a wink. “We have to figure out who is the one to see the newest Spider after we finish. I won.” She leaned close and pulled another straw out of her pocket, this one shorter, “I also cheated.” She winked at him and then stood up, walking over to the doorway. “Do _not_ use your arm! I understand that it might be difficult given…”

Pete had already moved to the window at that point and he looked at her over his shoulder. Rio met his eyes in slight surprise at realizing how quickly he had moved, he expected. “This is hardly the first time I’ve been told not to use my dominant,” he said, and her expression saddened, “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “_Thank_ you,” he said, trying to give her all of the feelings deep within him, the ones he couldn’t touch. She smiled at him and gave a little nod. With that he jumped out the window and called a portal, falling through it.

Pete found that even though he still hurt, and even though his arm still shot twinges of pain, he felt more human than he had the last few days. He also found the sight of his world with its black and white so much more bearable.

Pete knew that it wouldn’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take care of yourselves, peeps! Stay warm, stay safe, stay loved~ Reminder to be kind to yourself as well as others.


	7. The Typhoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete gets invited to a Klan party, and finds a man dressed in Platinum who needs to be destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHECK THE TAGS!!! I have changed them recently and I just wanted to make sure everyone was aware. I had honestly forgotten a lot about Jessica Jones' past and who Killgrave was as a person, but as I was writing this chapter it all came back to me, and then I did some more research, and then I proceeded to curse repeatedly. There is some Serious. Non-consensual. Touch. in this chapter. There's also heavy hinting to actual noncon though nothing is ever directly on-screen as it were in regards to that. With that said, the brutal and painful death is absolutely true and he fucking deserves it. The only thing that's nice about writing fucking awful characters is I get the enjoyment of killing them later, and I definitely get some enjoyment here. Um. Thoughts. Thoughts. 
> 
> Oh! This chapter is not all Killgrave, a lot of it is Jameson, and I am *so excited* to finally reveal a bit about my Jameson that I've been hoarding. I hope you're all as excited as I am because I am fucking excited. Other thoughts. OH! GenderqueerWriter wrote me a gift which can be found - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23968102 and linked at the end since it's a direct inspiration. I love it and I want you all to check it out and love it for me, too lol, because it deserves it. 
> 
> This chapter references the One-Drop Rule, which Was a rule in the 20th century that was acknowledged in many Southern States that if a person had a single drop of blood from a Black ancestor then that person was considered Black, regardless of how white they looked. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One-drop_rule you can read about it here, and search it up. It's a pretty shitty rule and connected to both segregation and the idea of Passing.  
The Kugel Pete makes is a modified - https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/potato-kugel/  
And...I think that's it. 
> 
> Click the embedded link when you see it for some mood music LOL. 
> 
> On with the show, lovelies~ I hope you get as much catharsis out of this as I did LOL.

Pete had collapsed, exhausted sometime around three in the morning, only able to give a wordless thanks to the ceiling that his room was no longer bugged. The sleep that he fell into was deep, and when he woke up sometime around noon, he felt more rested than he had been. His shoulder also no longer felt quite as awful. Pete mumbled quietly as he rolled out of bed, carefully stretching his arm, checking movement and flexibility. He still felt that odd feeling of something in there, which meant the bullet hadn’t left his body yet, but it was working on it.

He changed his clothes, too tired to even contemplate a shower, and went downstairs. Pete felt like he could eat today. It was a welcome change.

Pete made himself a modified casserole, throwing it in the oven, and after setting a timer, moved over to the window, looking out. It was the first time that he had really spent time looking out at the neighborhood his house was located in, his initial reaction towards it always somewhere between disgust at the person the house belonged to, and generally feeling as though he didn’t want to make any connections with the neighbors.

The more anonymous he was, the safer he’d be.

It was as he was staring out the window that he saw a familiar face approaching, and he felt the slow curdling in his stomach.

Sylvester Wright was coming for a visit. 

Pete waved when Wright looked up, Wright smiling brightly as he waved back, and walked up the paved walk briskly. Pete moved to the door, letting him in. The man gave a brief huff into his mittened hands, rubbing them as he left the cold outside.

The breeze that Pete had let in was more than sharp, it was cutting…

“Hello!” Wright called out with a smile, and for the first time Pete actively took Wright’s coat, having finally healed enough that he could reach in a way that Wright wouldn’t protest. Wright laughed, letting Pete hang it on the coatrack as he exclaimed in delight about the smell.

Pete momentarily felt a flash of something in his heart. The meal he had prepared for himself was a variation on a potato kugel as matzo meal was not something that he had in his cupboards (for obvious reasons). Pete didn’t necessarily think that Wright would recognize it because of that lack, but it was a momentary spike in his chest.

“You’re welcome to stay for lunch,” Pete offered, keeping that nebulous thing in his chest in the dark where it belonged. Pete didn’t have time for it. “I made a casserole, so it’s a bit bigger of a portion than I can regularly eat” (a complete lie) “I had intended to have leftovers, but I’ll share since you’re here.”

“I’ll take you up on it,” Wright smiled, clapping his hands together. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“It’s good with slices of bread and butter,” Pete said easily, nodding his head to the bread box. “If you would like to prepare a couple…”

“Absolutely,” Wright grinned, and moved to do so. “How are your arms feeling? I do not believe I have asked and that seems like a grave mistake in retrospect.”

“They’ve healed quite nicely,” Pete answered, “though I believe I will always have the scar.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Wright said, his expression clouding, even as he pulled the bread from the box and sought out the bread knife. “I’m sorry you will have to live with such a reminder.”

“It’s hardly the only bad memory I have marked on my flesh,” Pete returned, feeling a burst of something warm in his chest. Something that might have been amusement…

Wright hesitated, and then turned to him. “Yes,” he finally agreed, and Pete knew that those eyes were tracing across the scars on his face. “Yes, you…you’re right. You…” Wright hesitated. “I don’t know how to put this,” he said with a slight frown. “My family has always been wealthy, so the…experience that you have described… I do not understand what your life was like before you came upon the money you did. The only thing I can say is I am glad you are no longer there. It is obvious to me that the life you had before you found us was…hard. I hope that we can be a balm to the callouses you have developed overtime.”

“Poetic,” Pete found himself saying, his tone more clipped than he had meant, and Wright flinched.

“Ah, forgive me, I…should not have spoken of what I don’t understand. I just…” he hesitated. “I’m glad that you are no longer living in such poverty as what you described,” Wright finally managed softly. “I am glad that you are in this house and able to afford food. I would say that I’m glad that you’re no longer among the ones that can hurt you as bad as you have been, but that is obviously a lie.” Wright laughed, and Pete found himself laughing with him, the sound a strained thing, but nothing that felt _wrong_.

It was truer than Wright knew.

“Acceptable,” Pete finally said, and Wright beamed at him. Pete didn’t know how to take the man before him. He hated him for his kindness, for his gullibility that had allowed him to be tricked by the Klan, as much as he found that same kindness and gullibility the balm that Wright had spoken of.

Pete hated _that_ as much as anything and found himself cursing the other man. If he only hadn’t been that _stupid_.

Wright had finished with the bread by then, and had cut them two slices each, bringing it over to the table as Pete brought out plates, putting them down before them. He brought the silverware out as Wright buttered the bread with the room-temperature butter that had been placed in the dish on the table. Milk would go well with the modified kugel, so he found himself pouring two glasses. The timer dinged then, and Wright took the tea towel, pulling it out of the oven and setting it on the table with the rest of the towel underneath it to protect the wood. Wright took a deep breath of the steam rising from it as Pete brought out the serving spoons. He served Wright first, the other man sitting down as he put the plate in front of him and dished up his own.

“This smell’s absolutely divine, what is it?” he asked.

“A modified casserole,” Pete answered, which was true, technically. “It doesn’t really have a name, it’s just something that I’ve been making now and again.”

“Do you often cook?” Wright asked.

“I do,” Pete answered with a nod, “I like to cook.”

“That’s marvelous. I can cook myself, but…well, as you likely tasted, I’m not very good at it.” He smiled sheepishly. Wright took a bit of the casserole on his fork, blowing on it to cool, before carefully taking a bite. The pleased noise he made was almost enough to get Pete to smirk at him, but he bit it down. “Obviously, you don’t share my lack,” Wright laughed aloud. “This is delicious, thank you.” 

“I’d hope I don’t share that lack, and I’m glad,” Pete answered, scooping some of the casserole on his bread and taking a bite of it. Wright made a pleased noise and copied him. The momentary pang deep in Pete’s chest was enough to get him to pause, but he turned that in a reach for his milk.

It wasn’t fair.

“You don’t mind if I ask you what it is you wanted?” Pete finally asked.

“Well, Williams, I actually meant to give you another invite,” Wright answered, putting his fork down. “Not to my house, though you will be seeing my wife again should you come. We are going to be visiting Marcus Smith’s place. He hosts our annual party, and I would like to invite you as my guest, my wife being attached to me as it were,” he said with a grin and a wink. “It would give you an opportunity to really network, and I think that it would be good to get you reintroduced with the people you should have met should…all of your awful accidents not have happened. I’m still terribly sorry about all of that.”

“No, it’s not an issue, and…” Pete hesitated, “I accept. When is it? Is there something I should bring?”

“Just yourself, and your robes – separate of course,” Wright winked. “It is not all the time that it happens, but the parties can get…rather wild, if you understand my meaning.”

Pete attempted to keep the swell of hatred that burned deep within him off of his face and away from his posture. “I do,” Pete returned instead, also leaning forward. “When is this to be taking place?”

“Wednesday,” Wright answered, “I will of course be picking you up as my guest. Six o’clock sharp I will be here to pick you up. Don’t bother eating as there will be quite a spread when we get there.” “I will be here,” Pete agreed with a nod. “Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble, it’s honestly like I said before, you’re my responsibility as someone I recruited,” Wright frowned. “I refuse to let you fall to the wayside due to negligence on my part.”

“Then I doubly appreciate it,” Pete returned easily.

Niceties.

How he hated them.

“…Wright,” Pete started after the silence had grown long between them, and Wright gave a thoughtful hum, looking up at him again. “Do…do you think, and I understand if you can’t, but given…given what I’ve gone through thus far, it’s just… Do you have any idea of what kind of…festivities will be prepared?”

“Oh! Of course, you’d be nervous given what you’ve been through, particularly with that…_Spider_ fellow…” Wright hesitated, and Pete had to fight to keep the flash of something warm in his chest off of his face, “unfortunately I can’t really tell you,” Wright finally admitted softly. “I don’t know. The heads of the order put everything together, and they don’t tend to tell me what is being planned often. Particularly when they are so often delighted by the idea of the surprise as it were. I apologize, Williams, I wish I had more information I could give you. I do know that I don’t think it’s going to involve Harlem. I can guess, but I don’t want to get your heart set on one thing and have it be another.”

“I understand,” Pete agreed softly. “Do you _mind_ guessing?”

“Well,” Wright hummed quietly, “there’s the possibility of a burning. Which church and in which district I can’t tell you, but that’s a staple. There’s also the possibility of an attack on some of the Irish. There’s a particular bar, I think, Carl’s? It’s been expanding its reach out of its territory, and I know that there was talk of putting them back in their places. We haven’t been bothering them much, but we can’t let them get complacent, particularly in these circumstances. Honestly, there are others, but those are the two that I know I’ve heard rumors of floating around.”

“Wright…” Pete whispered softly, “Would I be a coward if I didn’t want to participate?”

“Oh goodness no!” Wright shook his head, “it would be completely understandable, particularly since what happened the last time you were in Harlem. If the rumor you would like to be spread is that you’re still healing, I will absolutely do so. I honestly can’t believe you are completely healed anyway.”

“No,” Pete agreed, mindful as ever of the bullet in his shoulder. “I can’t say I am, either.”

“Then double the reason for you to sit this one out,” Wright agreed with a nod.

Their meal ended shortly, and Pete escorted Wright to the door. They said their goodbyes and Pete waited for a moment, before heading back to the kitchen. Pete pulled the rest of the leftover casserole over and finished the rest. His body needed to heal, and if he meant to heal then he needed to eat.

He had a report to make, and it was best he made it as soon as possible.

* * *

Pete had changed into his Spider uniform, slipping from shadow to shadow. Going midday like this wasn’t unusual, but he knew that if he allowed himself to be spotted in the same neighborhood that Williams was known to be in it would make things difficult for him. It was for this reason that he wound up going the long way around, avoiding any of the usual paths from the direction of ‘his’ neighborhood – which Pete had never entered, being a part of the more wealthy district, and therefore entirely out of his comfort zone. When he finally felt as though he was going from far enough away, Pete leapt into view, swinging across the city and tearing his way along it.

His shoulder _burned_, but Pete needed to give the _illusion_ at least of full health.

They needed to know that the Spider was visibly patrolling. It had been something he had been doing off and on the last few weeks, and he refused to double-down on it, but that meant that he needed to report to Cage, or Daredevil, and he needed to do it quickly. Something had to be done to see if they could prevent this.

Pete idly wondered if Stark had already contacted one or the other, knowing that he had cameras and microphones all over that kitchen. The idea of calling Stark had turned his stomach and so Pete hadn’t bothered. If they knew they would tell him, and they could create a counsel quicker.

Pete only realized he was swinging towards Daredevil when he hit the bathhouse that he’d been in that fateful day the most recent time everything in his life when wrong.

Pete eyed the bathhouse and idly wished that he was more destruction oriented, because he had the desire to burn it to the ground. It wasn’t really the bathhouse’s fault, of course…but that didn’t stop the urge. Pete hesitated on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen, staring in, and finally decided to brave it.

The last visit was still fresh in his mind. The realization that his Curse had progressed beyond what they expected. The way they had _looked_ at him. The fact that Pete had come upon Daredevil maskless had apparently not been troubling enough for them to drop him, but the idea that his Curse was _progressing_? That had been too much.

Foggy’s voice had been particularly horrified, a bit of harshness when he told him to get _back_, and frankly Pete wasn’t sure why Daredevil hadn’t killed him. Or at least attempted. But he also thought it might have had something to do with that way they looked at him, the fact that they still thought of him as a tool, or a particularly smart animal. There had been that consistent use of ‘it,’ after all, the fact that even after Pete consistently proved himself as being able to bring back pertinent information, as a help…

Though, perhaps…perhaps Pete had kept too much distance. Perhaps he should have done more than slink in the corner, drop off information and go. Perhaps he should have spent more time trying to talk to them.

But Pete hadn’t been able to accept he wasn’t just a monster back then. He hadn’t been able to see himself as anything but a monster. 

Pete hadn’t gone back after that initial fallout. Hadn’t brought his information to them, hadn’t opened their windows and slid into that corner like a shadow…he realized now maybe he should have. There was little doubt in his mind that they had been the ones to suggest utilizing him first, regardless of what Cage suggested. Cage had never seen the white flesh of his arm as it was bared, had never stitched him up after taking a blow from a knife that would have killed Foggy.

It still hadn’t been enough, and in a way, Pete didn’t think it _would_ have been. A dog could be trained to protect its master, after all, and they hadn’t had enough contact with him to know otherwise.

Though, when Daredevil had spoken of Foggy being someone he could go to, should he have news, he had recognized it as the apology, the olive branch that it was. Pete had decided to accept.

Though perhaps, perhaps it really was best that he hadn’t attempted to come back to them before they extended that invitation. Maybe it was better for them to have come to him. As it was, Pete found himself moving into the shadows of the city easily. There was a time and a place to announce he was coming.

This was not one of those times.

Pete slipped into Foggy’s office with the ease of someone that had done it often enough for it to have become a habit, finding the usual corner. He waited the usual minute before Foggy looked up, suddenly feeling the eyes upon him, and then looked towards Pete.

“FUCK!” Foggy shouted out, springing back, and there was a further call of,

“It’s just the Spider, Foggy,” as Matt opened the door, looking a bit more amused than he should have. He stepped into the room without the cane that he had used when they had first begun working together. Matt had understood when Pete did not part with his own name, and really, had never asked.

There was no reason to name a walking ghost, after all, and who he’d been hadn’t mattered in the name of the mission.

“You have news?” Matt asked.

“Wednesday the Klan is planning something. I don’t know exactly what or where, but there is a gathering that takes place after 6pm in the house of a man named Marcus Smith. He has the most generic last name I have ever heard, but he’s wealthy still, as well as a key player in the Klan. Someone with money and power, I’d assume,” Pete hummed, “though what he makes his living at I don’t know. Regardless, there is a threat towards either Carl’s Diner, the Irish one by seventh and Main, or some random number of churches. He didn’t mention synagogues so I can’t claim that they’re under threat. Admittedly, I’m not entirely certain if those places will be the ones that will be targeted. They were guesses by Sylvester Wright. I begged off of the…_festivities_ afterwards. I may be able to bring further information after the dinner.”

“Now that’s _interesting_ news,” Foggy hummed. “Can we use it?” he looked to Matt then, and Matt hesitated, moving over towards Foggy’s desk and leaning against it carefully. It still confused Pete, how Matt saw the world, how he was able to navigate as well as he was… But he never asked.

“There are some potential issues,” Matt said, “outside of the fact that you had him name some likely locations, the fact that we will seem warned ahead of time is going to be obvious. If we show up to deal with it specifically, it will compromise you.”

Pete was quiet for a moment, his head tilting. “Then we don’t deal with it specifically. Start a wider range of patrol, up the frequency. If we stumble across the place they’re acting, it’s merely a coincidence spurred on by an increased patrol. I’ve been doing that for weeks, at least,” Pete frowned. “But I’m not sure that I will be able to get out of that house should I return to it. It would be something I attempt, nonetheless.”

“It’s got a point,” Foggy hummed, and then waved his hand, “He, _he_ has a point. I…I’m sorry about that, Spider. Force of habit.”

Pete didn’t know how to respond.

“Nonetheless,” Matt said, easily talking over Pete’s own silence, his voice quiet and his mouth in a fine line. “Nonetheless, we are only three people. Cage and I have both broadened our patrols, as it were, in a similar way to you, but there is a _lot_ of ground to cover.” Matt sighed. “I wish we had a way to spread the information outside of our walls, but I don’t know who I could trust to do that.”

“I have someone,” Pete said softly, his mind immediately flashing to Jameson and his group of kids. “I have someone who might spread the information.”

“_You_ have a contact, Spider?” Foggy asked, before grimacing. “Do they…do they know about the Cursed thing?”

“The only ones that don’t are Klan idiots,” Pete said softly. “The people that have too much wealth and not enough sense. My contact knows. I report to him in a similar way as I report…reported to you.”

“I think…” Foggy sighed. “I think we should make it ‘report,’ again,” Foggy said finally, standing up. “I’ve been talking to Matt. He’s been discussing what he’s learned due to consistent contact, and we… _I_ wanted to apologize on my own. I didn’t react in a manner that was befitting of all the work you did for us. I should have given you more of a chance. I’m sorry, Spider. Please accept my apology, I’d like to start over.” Foggy held out his hand, looking up at him with dark gray eyes that pinched slightly, a mixture of fear and determination turning their gaze sharp.

Pete was silent for a moment, unsure how to take this, how to respond, and slowly, carefully, inched himself down the wall towards Foggy. He took the hand that was offered, shaking it, and Foggy smiled at him as Pete gave a very awkward, but nonetheless genuine, "accepted."

“I’d like to apologize, too,” Matt said, and held his own hand out. “You’d think with the number of months we worked together I would have gotten a clue, but…fears run deep, and I…_felt_ the change as it happened in you. It was…” he trailed off, his hand still held out for him, “honestly Spider, it’s not something I’m likely to forget in a long time. But it should not have caused me to drop you as far as I did, particularly if I wasn’t willing to kill you.”

Pete shook the hand, “I would have let you,” he said simply, and he felt as the air changed, the way they ‘looked’ at him sharper. “You’re not the only ones that would have been planning my death. But while I’m still here, I might as well help.”

Matt grinned, the look sharp as tacks and twice as violent. “Amen to that,” he said with a nod, and Pete grinned back underneath the mask. “Accepted then?”

“Accepted,” Pete agreed, and they unclasped hands.

“You get to your contact, Spider,” Foggy said, frowning. “See if they can spread the word. If not, report back to us or Cage, if we don’t see you, we’ll assume that he’s been able to get the word out.”

“Understood,” Pete said with a nod.

“Godspeed, Spider…though I hope it’s not the god that has a hold of you,” Matt frowned.

Pete grinned wide as could be, “Amen to that,” and moved to the window.

“Spider,” Matt called out again, and Pete hesitated. “Cage came over, asking for me to find you. Said you had come to him bleeding all over the place, and that when he touched you, he came up with a handful of blood. I couldn’t find you.” Matt looked at him with those eyes that didn’t focus directly on him. “I’m glad you’re still alive, but wherever you go to hide…maybe give us a little warning first, okay?”

“…I’ll do my best,” Pete agreed, and then dove out the window, blending into the shadows of Hell’s Kitchen once again. He’d swing through the districts he knew he could get away with, and then he’d broaden his sweep. Jameson had said he’d be in his apartment at seven, so Pete would swing that way at seven.

Maybe Jameson would let him stay again… If nothing else, he would enjoy the company.

* * *

Jameson was where he said he would be when Pete managed to swing in that direction after stopping a few muggings. It was a slower night. The idea that they were saving their energy for Wednesday was something that did not appeal in the slightest. It also meant getting the word out that much more dire.

Jameson answered the window almost immediately, and Pete had the strangest idea that Jameson had been watching for him. Either way, he was let in easily, and to Pete’s surprise, Jameson immediately began eyeing him closely. Jameson got farther up in his space than Pete had anticipated, looking him over, and finally leaned back with a frown.

“You don’t look like you’re dying,” the man finally spat.

“I got shot yesterday,” Pete said without really thinking of what he was saying, watching as black eyes narrowed into slits. “I’m fine,” he said lamely.

“Sure, you got shot and you’re _fine_,” he rolled his eyes excessively with a frown. “What brings you here then? If it’s about dinner I can prepare something pretty quick.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even thought of food,” Pete frowned, and as he said it, he realized he was starving. “But that wasn’t why I came here,” Pete returned, shaking his head. “I need you to spread some…rumors.”

“You need my brats,” Jameson said, his head tilting back, a slightly smug look appearing on his face. “They’ll be delighted to do work for you. What information do you need spread?”

“First off I need to know if you’ve been spreading any rumors currently?” Pete asked with a frown.

“Naturally, the ones about keeping the churches that don’t fit the exact mold the Klan agrees with on their toes…” Jameson frowned, thinking. “I’ve been trying to anticipate where they’d strike, you know that the communities are already circling. I’ve also been listening to the kids themselves since most of them come from communities that I’m not in. If they have an idea, they can pitch it and I’ll see that it gets polished enough that it’s viable, work it out with their parents.” Jameson looked proud of that, and Pete remembered the easy way Jameson had brought him into the fold in the very beginning, the easy way he’d respected him even as a sixteen-year-old cub reporter. “You wouldn’t believe how often people overlook children. It’s why they make such good newshounds. And the thing about it is, they still have _hope_. That’s the best thing about being around them.” Jameson trailed off, looking away for a moment before turning back to Pete. “I’d hoped that the fact that people had started circling was spreading back to the Klan itself, have you heard anything on their end?”

“No,” Pete answered with a frown. “Though I haven’t been able to keep as close to the source as I had hoped. They keep their major plans close to the chest, not even their Recruiter knows everything. Wright knows enough to make it sound appealing, and then all of the extra details are filled in later.”

“That’s how they win you over to those cults,” Jameson grimaced. “They keep you distanced enough that it all sounds like a good idea, and then the closer you get to the root the more you’ve been brainwashed into accepting what they’re telling you, regardless of how awful it gets. Hell, Spider, if you weren’t Jewish and therefore one of the groups, they spout off about, I’d be worried you’d sink into it. It’s not even because I think you’re stupid, it’s because it’s an echo chamber and it’s hard not to let that influence you.”

Pete was mildly surprised at the statement as well as the reference to the Klan as a cult. And then he grimaced. Pete hated cults, and this was yet another reason for that hatred. “I fucking hate it,” Pete spat, before sighing.

“Good,” Jameson said, “spew that shit out of your soul and keep it out as long as you can. It’s not good to dwell on it for long. So, you’re going to get it out, tell me what information you need for my brats to spread, and then you’re going to take a shower while I make dinner. You planning on staying the night?”

Pete was quiet for a moment, looking out the window into the steadily falling snow, and looked back to Jameson. “May I stay, please?” he asked. Jameson nodded.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have offered. It looks like nasty weather to swing in anyway.”

“It’s better than yesterday,” Pete countered. “I had a bullet in my shoulder, then.”

“Spider, I _swear_,” Jameson said, pointing to him, and Pete found himself grinning underneath the mask as wide as could be. “Is there anything you heard that you can’t get out of your head? Something you want to speak out of your skull and rid yourself of?”

“We’d be here all night,” Pete finally said with a sigh.

“What comes to your mind immediately?” Jameson countered.

Pete hesitated, and then found himself talking. Jameson listened, his gaze the sort of sharply nonjudgmental stare that only he could pull off, and something that made the words come easier. When he was finally finished, Jameson patted him on the back.

“Good job vomiting that up,” he said with a smirk and then walked over to his end table. He pulled out a bottle of Jack’s and pulled out a small glass with it. “Rinse your mouth out with this,” he said pouring Pete a couple of fingers-full, “and then take a shower.”

Pete took the glass, doing what was advised, and swallowing it down. It burned on the way down, and Pete took a breath, letting it out, before moving towards Jameson’s shower after handing the glass back. The shower he took was long and Pete felt lighter than he had in a very long time. Pete dressed again, coming back to the kitchen to find Jameson leaning against the counter, staring at a couple of pans. “You had spaghetti before, Spider?”

“Can’t say I have,” Pete returned, frowning.

“It’s noodles, and in this case a tomato-based sauce, though there are other ways to prepare it. It’s…it _was_…a favorite of my late wife.”

The confirmation that Jameson had been married hit him deep in his chest. “Oh,” Pete managed softly. “I…I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Jameson returned. “We were married twenty-seven years. Today is her birthday.”

“Jameson, I can…I can leave,” Pete whispered. 

“Nonsense,” Jameson frowned. “I’m glad you’re here actually,” he said finally. “I’ve had enough of celebrating her memory alone. Do you…do you mind if I share?”

“Please,” Pete returned, and sat down at the table, turning his attention to the other man fully. “What was her name?”

“Her name was Joan,” Jameson answered softly. “And she was the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Pete listened to Jameson talk the entire time he cooked the ‘spaghetti,’ listened to the stories of her wit and the drive that had attracted Jameson to her to begin with. Her passion for truth and journalism, the way that she spoke out for the rights of others, the way she drove Jameson as much as he drove her. It was a match made in heaven, and Jameson couldn’t have been happier.

Until she had been diagnosed with cancer.

Pete’s heart broke as the man spoke of slowly watching her waste away, the way that she had been falling apart, but still looked at her husband with such _warmth_. Pete listened and said nothing until the other man had finished, draining the noodles using a lid to release the water.

“I buried her in the graveyard I found you in,” Jameson said, bowing over the sink as soon as the water had been drained. “I had been visiting two bodies there, not just the one.” Jameson sighed. “I _miss_ her.”

“She sounds like she was wonderful,” Pete whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have met her.”

“She would have liked you; you know?” Jameson said finally, turning to look at him. “It’s part of the reason I wanted to help you. You’ve got the world against you, but you keep going. It’s the kind of spirit that she loved, and I have to say I agree.” Jameson looked to the ceiling, biting back what Pete knew were tears, and he looked the other direction, allowing the other man time to compose himself. “It’s a quality she had in spades; you know?” he asked softly when he was no longer in danger of crying. “A woman putting herself out in the working world…she always appreciated seeing it in other people. I hate that damn disease for killing her,” Jameson said finally, looking at him with a frown. “It was the only thing she couldn’t beat.”

Pete was silent for a moment, unsure what to say. “I…might be able to make a deal…” Pete whispered finally.

“A _deal_?” Jameson laughed, “What kind of deal could you possibly _make_? And with…with…” Jameson paused, staring at him, reading the look on his face. Jameson let go of the pot and it fell in the sink with a clatter. “What kind of deal are you talking about, Spider?” he asked faintly.

“I’m…” Pete hesitated, “you’ve realized, haven’t you, Jameson…that I’m not _like_ the other Changed?” Jameson stared at him, turning around to face him properly, squeezing the sink tightly. “Have you ever wondered why?”

“_Christ_, Spider,” Jameson hissed softly. “There…there hasn’t been a person in New York that hasn’t wondered. What do you mean make a deal?”

“My…Change wasn’t…” Pete took a breath, bracing himself, and finally, softly, “my Change wasn’t caused by Reaching.”

Jameson slid down the counter to sit on the floor, staring at him with wide and horrified eyes, “what do you mean?” he asked softly. “Are…what do you _mean_ it wasn’t by Reaching?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Pete said softly. “I…caught wind of something. Something that I needed to investigate, back when…back when I was still human.” Pete swallowed. “This was back when the Goblin was still in business, was still smuggling anything he could… One of the things he smuggled was this…statue. It was old, clearly made in worship to some…thing, some deity, and it was horrible, and it was ugly. I remember looking at it and just…knowing in my bones that something about it was wrong. It was wrong wrong wrong…” Pete took a breath. “And then they dropped it.” Pete closed his eyes. “It shattered.” Jameson swallowed audibly, and Pete quietly, softly, “I watched as spiders came out of its shattered remains, as they swarmed up one of the ones that had been carrying this deity, this _web_, and it ate him alive.” Pete took a breath, tilting his head back, losing himself in the memory. “I couldn’t scream. I’d placed myself in the rafters and was watching from a distance, and if I screamed, I would have gained all of their attention and there was nowhere I could escape to.” Pete’s head lowered, “and then I felt as something crawled up my hand.

“It bit me, Jameson,” Pete said finally, opening his eyes and staring at Jameson through his goggles, taking in the way the man had fisted his hands on the tile of the kitchen, the visible horror in his gaze. “It _bit_ me, and I felt it tearing me apart. And then I saw _it_.” Jameson let out a little sound, broken, awful, and this was the reaction that Pete had been expecting when he talked to the other Spiders, this was the reaction of someone who realized that all that he knew about the subject was wrong, and that there was more danger than at first perceived.

Because if Pete could be Changed without Reaching, then how many more could?

“The Spider God, the thing that has me…is _old_, Jameson,” Pete whispered. “It’s older than _civilizations_, than anything I’ve ever come in contact with before. _And I’ve seen the things that are out there, Jameson_. I’ve seen them when I close my eyes at night and try and sleep. They don’t _care_ about us, Jameson, not really. Sometimes they get bored, but most of the time we’re beneath their notice. The thing that got me, I don’t think there are others like it, or if there _are_, maybe it beat the others. Maybe…I don’t know. All I know is so far, I’m the only one that’s _like me_. I’m the only Changed that _isn’t_. But here’s the thing, Jameson. My humanity? My soul? _I have to offer it up_. If there’s something that I want, or something that I need to do, I can _make a deal_, Jameson. I might be able to see if I can stop cancer from happening. I might be able to see if there was a way to keep it from affecting anyone else.”

Jameson was silent for a long time, staring up at him with those eyes. Pete let him process, watched as Jameson slowly began piecing everything together in his mind. Finally, the other man started to push himself upright, taking a shaky step forward and grabbing hold of the chair in front of Pete, pulling it out and collapsing into it. Jameson stared at him quietly, “You didn’t _Reach_,” he whispered, and it wasn’t the ‘yes’ that Pete had thought it would be, instead the expression on Jameson’s face shifting slowly to a combination of horror and…something different than pity, something harder. “That…I can’t even begin to _imagine_…” he whispered, licking at his lips and burying his head in his hands. “_Fuck_, what a _nightmare_. What an awful, awful nightmare.”

Pete watched as Jameson continued to process, his head buried in his hands.

“You say you’re the only one like you that you’ve found?” he finally asked. “There hasn’t been a record, or any indication of others that have been…have been _taken_?”

“No,” Pete responded, shaking his head. “I’ve found nothing. None of the Cults that have sought me have been familiar with it either, and they’ve spread their information back over a millennia. I don’t know another that is like me. I don’t think that there will be a sudden onset of people that are taken without Reaching, Jameson. I think…I think I just got _lucky_.”

Jameson made an ugly sound, and his body was still trembling, but it had eased. “Have you…” Jameson swallowed. “Have you tried to make a deal like that before? Have you tried to get rid of another awful disease?” Pete hesitated, and Jameson banged his fist on the table, “You answer me, Spider, and you make it honest.”

“Yes,” Pete finally responded softly. “I tried with measles.”

“I’m guessing the answer was no,” Jameson said finally, looking at him with a partial grimace that might have been an attempt at a grin. “Why do you think…_it_ would say yes to _this_?”

Pete was quiet a moment, “I don’t,” he finally whispered. “Not really. But I could still _try_.”

“And what would it do to _you_, Spider?” Jameson asked, frowning at him. “What would the deal do to _you_? What would asking do?”

“I don’t know,” Pete answered finally. “But I know it would likely be something major. Asking it to make a Deal would also be…dangerous to me, admittedly,” Pete said looking to the table, studying the grain of the wood. “I’m weak afterwards. It feels as though I get strung out, as though I’m pulled to the point of breaking. It takes me about a day to fully recover.”

“No,” Jameson said, frowning. “No, my answer…my answer is no. I’m not willing to sacrifice you for something that has no chance in happening, and don’t you _say_ shit, Spider, you and I both know that there is no chance that it will say yes.” Jameson sighed, rubbing his face. “I almost wish you hadn’t told me, that…” he gave a quiet curse, “Spider, is it a danger to _me_?”

“No,” Pete answered immediately, shaking his head. “I already gave my soul for you and your brats. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure you were safe.”

Jameson stared at him blankly for the longest time, his eyes flickering back and forth between his goggles, before he put his shaking hands on the table before him. “You gave your soul for _me_, Spider?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“I had to keep you safe,” Pete shrugged. “It was a logical choice if I intended…if I intended to keep helping you, and I was going to go around the children that work for you. I don’t…it’s never shown interest towards anyone else. But it’s just…I can’t leave it to chance, Jameson, I _can’t_. I can’t leave it up to its fickle moods. I have…I have to keep the people I work with safe. It gets a piece of me; it leaves you alone. It’s…frankly it’s satisfied with that.”

Jameson flattened his hands against the table, bowing himself forward. For the longest time he didn’t move, and Pete didn’t either, before quietly, softly, “I can’t pay that _back_, Spider.”

“You don’t have to,” Pete answered, frowning, for a moment startled by the statement. “It’s a necessary move to protect you, there’s no need for repayment. I just…”

“Spider,” Jameson said, frowning up at him. “Spider, you have…how _long_ has it been? How long have you given your soul for…for _me_, and I’ve treated you…?”

“You treated me the kindest out of anyone,” Pete answered, for one moment desperately confused as to what this reaction was coming from. Jameson curled up further, clasping his hands over his face.

“God, Spider, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m _sorry_ we’re all such stupid ignorant fools we can’t see what’s right in front of us.”

“Jameson you _can’t_ tell _anyone_,” Pete pleaded, reaching out.

“I know that!” Jameson called out, standing up. “I _know_ that I can’t. I know that it’d…it’d scare the living _shit_ out of people if they knew what happened to you. If they knew that _They_ can _Reach_, but…but that doesn’t make it any better, what I did. What _any_ of us did. The way we’ve been treating you…and it _wasn’t even your decision_.”

Pete was quiet for a moment. “I’ve gotten used to it,” he finally whispered. “It’s not like any of you are _wrong_. Eventually it’s _going_ to take me over. It’s a mistake to think that it won’t.”

“You deserve more than the scraps of human decency we feed you,” Jameson hissed. Pete fell silent, unsure what to say in response. Jameson sighed, leaning against his table, his eyes closed. “I’m sorry, Spider, for the distance that I’ve kept. I’m sorry that I didn’t see what was right in front of my face.”

“I didn’t advertise it, Jameson,” Pete said softly, standing up, and carefully reaching out a hand, laying it on Jameson’s shoulder and squeezing. “I don’t blame you. There’s nothing to forgive. I just…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

Jameson hesitated, and then nodded, straightening up. He looked him in his goggled eyes for a moment, flickering back and forth between them. “My wife would have liked you twice as much. Going through what you do on a constant basis needlessly, still working hard to help the people that wrong you.” Jameson nodded slowly. “Damn impressive.”

Pete took a step back then, looking away, and that’s when the acrid smell of burning tomato hit his nose. Pete looked at the stove and gave a brief curse, leaping over the entire table, Jameson included, the man letting out a squawk of surprise as Pete landed on the wall and pulled the pot off the heat. Pete heard as Jameson whirled around even as he carefully turned the heat off, “get a bowl!” he called out, and Jameson complied, bringing a serving bowl over and Pete opened the pan, carefully working on scooping out the unburnt tomato sauce that was still within using a ladle Johnson had been using to stir. The bottom was black with char and smelled foul, and Jameson was cursing softly.

“It’s okay,” Pete said once he’d managed to get out the useable sauce. “Most of it looks fine. Do you have baking soda and vinegar?”

“I do,” Jameson agreed.

“Get me some,” he said as he put the pot carefully in the sink. There was a slight hiss as the heat from the pan evaporated the water from the sink. Jameson searched for the baking soda and vinegar and Pete eyed the pot carefully. “When this isn’t quite so hot, put in enough water to cover the bottom of the pan and an equal amount of vinegar, and boil the water down. Once you’ve done that, add a teaspoon of baking soda – it’s going to fizz, but once that stops just scrub it with this,” he indicated Jameson’s scoring pad, “and you’ll be fine. No need to get rid of the pan, and plenty of sauce.” Pete looked up at Jameson with a grin that the other man couldn’t see. “I’ll be able to taste your late wife’s favorite after all.”

Jameson hesitated before putting the baking soda and vinegar down on the counter, and finally laughed. “I’m glad, Spider,” he said softly. “You’ll love it. I don’t have any meatballs, I’m very strict with when I allow myself to get groceries, but it’s still worth eating.” Jameson went into the fridge and pulled out a block of cheese. “Partially because we still get to eat it with this.”

Pete carefully leapt back onto the floor, “sounds delicious. Are the noodles still warm?”

Jameson removed the lid from the pot that had been left on the other side of the sink and steam rose out from it. “Looks like it, get us two plates, far right corner, bottom shelf,” Pete did so, “and grab the bottle from the top shelf. There’s only one way to eat this and it’s with a nice wine.”

Pete had never had wine, and he took the bottle down with equal amounts of trepidation and interest. Wine was usually considered too expensive and ran on a much lower proof than the people Pete usually drank with were interested in. When Pete turned around Jameson was already grating a decent amount of cheese on an extra plate and had placed two slices of bread near them. Pete brought the wine and the plates over, getting the forks as Jameson requested, and then the glasses. Jameson laughed at the idea of having glasses specifically for wine, mumbling under his breath about the snobbery, but Pete honestly had never known there was a _discourse_.

It sounded interesting.

Jameson set them up easily, piling Pete’s plate high with noodles after giving himself his serving and dishing them both up with the still decent sauce. He brought them both their plates, shoving his fork towards Pete, who grabbed it easily. When they were both set Jameson poured them both some wine, before holding it up. “A toast, I think,” Jameson said softly, and Pete held his glass up easily, “to the best woman I ever knew, and to the Spider that gave his daggum soul for me.”

Pete ducked his head, but clicked his glass against Jameson’s regardless, pulling his mask up enough to take a careful sip, having heard that it wasn’t something you were meant to pound down. He wasn’t sure that he liked it, but he’d never refuse.

Jameson took his own cheese before shoving the plate with the rest towards Pete, who after a beat of hesitation, poured all of it on top of the sauce. Jameson gave a brief snort of laughter, and Pete watched carefully as Jameson twirled the pasta on his fork before carefully pulling it away from his plate with a decently bite-sized portion wrapped around it. “Joan thought the funniest thing about this was how you eat it,” he said, biting the pasta off of the fork. “It’s going to take you a try or two, but it’s pretty good.”

Pete carefully repeated what he’d seen Jameson do, finding that it did indeed want to try and slide off his fork, but eventually he got it. And he rather found that this? This he _liked_. Pete made a small sound, looking up at Jameson unable to help the slight tick of a grin on his face. “It’s nice,” he said after he’d swallowed and was sure he wasn’t about to flash the other man with a mouthful of food (no one needed that). Jameson grinned at him.

“Of course, it is, are you suggesting my wife had bad taste?”

“Never, sir,” Pete returned instinctively with that burst of warmth in his chest heating up, shaking his head and returning to the spaghetti. Jameson grumbled something that sounded like a ‘you better not,’ and got back to eating himself. They worked their way through the pasta easily, Pete finding it deliciously filling, and above-all warming. It might be something that he could ask the others about trying. He bet that Miles, Gwen, and Peni had all had pasta, but there was a possibility that…

Pete felt that warmth in his heart dim and then die, plunged suddenly into a moment of remembrance.

He missed them _so much_.

Pete took a bite of spaghetti and found that he couldn’t taste it. He ate it anyway.

“Now,” Jameson sighed, “what rumors did you want spread?”

“The Klan are planning something big on Wednesday,” Pete said, falling into the report like a man drowning. “We’ve already been increasing our patrols so there’s a possibility that if one of us were to find where they are it would seem as coincidence, but I had wondered if you’d been spreading rumors that would help them stay on edge.”

“A lot of the local communities have been circling,” Jameson said frowning, “and we’ve been doing our best to spread rumors and keep together. I don’t think suddenly being much more on edge on Wednesday would be picked out as something strange. Do you know exactly what they’re planning?”

“I heard the mention of burning, but I don’t know that that’s specifically what they’ll be up to,” Pete returned, frowning. “Churches, or Carl’s, the Irish one…”

“Dammit,” Jameson hissed, “I liked that one.”

“I like it, too,” Pete said softly. “But my source was guessing, and I asked him to, so I don’t…I’m worried about…”

“Don’t ever ask for specifics,” Jameson said, shaking his head. “I know how tempting it can be but do your best to take what you get. You’re in a difficult position and you don’t want to make it harder on yourself by having someone go, ‘oh, but I mentioned this to…’ what’s your codename, Spider? Who are you?”

“Mark,” Pete answered, frowning, “Mark Williams. Thirty-three, came out of poverty in the Bowery. Lost my ‘wife’ to an attack three months ago, five years married.”

“What did you do to escape poverty?” Jameson asked

“I came into the money, rich dead relative,” Pete shrugged. “I pulled it from the market before the crash and was able to snap up a manufacturing plant that was struggling. One man’s struggle, another’s opportunity. I’m not particularly wealthy, but I’m self-sufficient. I have another man running it for me, why spend the time if I know that they can do it right? I come and check on it periodically in a schedule that’s hard to predict and mostly taken to whim.”

Jameson laughed aloud. “You definitely have the talk down. What plant, how long, what do you do?”

“Car engines,” Pete answered. “I do have experience. Admittedly…not with _running_ the plant, but Stark gave me a rundown, and I do know how to piece an engine together. About six years, there’s a plant just out of Midtown. It’s technically a shell for Stark, but he’s let me use it as a cover.”

“That works, that works,” Jameson agreed, frowning. “Alright, Spider, I think that your story makes sense. You guys did good work. You’re doing your job just fine. You made one snafu, but it’s not a major one due to the fact that we were already circling. It won’t seem too suspicious if they react, because they’ve been aware. Don’t do it again, alright? _Never_ ask, not unless you mean to kill them,” Jameson added with a raised eyebrow. After a beat he frowned. “And Spider, whenever you feel like it’s getting too much, you come to me, okay? We’ll get it out of you again.”

“Why…” Pete started softly.

“Am I so knowledgeable about all this?” Jameson asked, leaning back. “I used to be a Spy Handler in the War,” he said with a frown, and Pete felt a burst of something so bright he thought it might have been awe. “I ran two groups of them. Good men and women, put into awful situations, and I learned.” Jameson leaned forward. “When I told you that you were doing your job right, Spider, it’s because I _know_. You’re doing _fine_. Your handlers? The lack of trust they display? It’s _sickening_. Another reason I’m…well, and this is going to sound awful, and I apologize, but I’m _glad_ that you’re Jewish because the fact that the Klan members you’re surrounded by are treating you better than your allies? You know it for the false front it is.” Jameson frowned, “_they’re_ shit at their jobs, right? Not you. Keep that in your head whenever you feel like you’re slipping. You’re doing a good job.”

“No _wonder_ Stark pissed you off so much,” Pete found himself whispering.

“Stark is a coward and a terrible handler. He should have never been put in charge. As a financial backer he’s perfect, but that’s about all his type are good for. Use him for his money and nothing else, because you aren’t going to get anything else that’s worth it.”

Pete hesitated, stuck somewhere between awe and palatable relief. Jameson had experience. He knew what he was talking about.

_Pete_ _was_ _doing_ okay.

“I meant what I said about you coming here, too,” Jameson said. “You need allies that have your best intentions, and I _do_ have that, Spider. I aim to see you out of this as whole and in one piece as possible. That does mean, though, Spider, that you tell me _everything_. We can work our way through _anything_, okay? No matter how shameful you might find it, you need to bring it to me.” Jameson sighed. “You’ll be putting yourself in a constantly vulnerable position, Spider. You might find yourself doing things you never would have expected or wanted, and that’s…just the nature of the job. I’ve heard it all, you won’t surprise or disgust me, okay, no matter _what it is_.”

Pete hesitated, tasting the words in his mind and finding them bitter, but true. A good poison.

Pete didn’t know it yet, but the agreement he gave would turn out to be a lie.

They discussed a few details of the rumors, finished their food, and Pete once again was ushered to the guest bedroom, Jameson telling him to sleep well and expect breakfast in the morning.

* * *

Pete had spent a relatively stable Tuesday leading up to the party on Wednesday with the Klan, but he knew as soon as Wright pulled up that all of that was about to change.

Pete had spent the entirety of Wednesday with a sick and gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach. In a way it didn’t matter how much coaching Jameson gave him, which was something the other man had quietly admitted after a breakfast spent with the two of them in deep discussion about his spy work. 

When the chips were down, Pete would have to make his own decisions and hope that they were the ones worth making. If they weren’t, they would be able to deal with the fallout. So long as Pete still drew breath he could still fight, and he had worth just as a _soldier_, even if he could no longer spy. It was something that Pete was trying desperately to cling to with all that he had. It was something he needed to remember.

Until that point, though, Pete was going to do his damned best.

As the car pulled up, Pete realized that Grace was in the passenger side, and so Pete slid into the back, giving his own welcome and thanks as they talked about how glad they were to see him. The car ride there was smooth, the conversation light. The robes under his coat, however, were a heavy weight… Wright had recommended he stay for the christening of the attack if nothing else, and for that he needed robes.

Pete hated them.

If Pete had thought Wright’s house was something, Smith’s house was a whole different animal. It was the definition of opulence, something that seemed like it belonged in some damn southern plantation instead of fucking New York city. Pete got out of the car, and due to his position opened the door for Grace first, who gave him a quiet thanks and took his hand as it was offered, helping her out of the car. Her skirts were expertly shifted out of the way as she stood on the curb, looking out at the house.

“It’s magnificent,” she said, “but between you and me,” she whispered, leaning over to him, and Pete indulgently lowered himself down, “I wouldn’t want to be in charge of cleaning it.”

Pete huffed something of a laugh, surprised at the statement. Wright took his position with his arm around his wife’s, and he led them to the door. The closer they got the more Pete could hear music. It had the slightly scratchy sound of a phonograph, but it was nonetheless playing something very familiar.

Cab Calloway.

Pete wanted to sneer as much as he wanted to spit. Of course, they would. Of course, they’d play it even as they hated the man who made it.

It disgusted him right down to his core, and he wondered idly if it wasn’t some form of cover, or if they unironically loved it, and sang the praises of the music. Pete wasn’t sure which he’d prefer.

Wright knocked on the door, and a man opened it, dressed in honest-to-fuck tails, the man looked about as uncomfortable as Pete felt.

“Come in, sirs, and madam, the party is in full swing. Champagne is being brought around.”

Fuck’s sake, was the man British? What the hell was happening anymore? Southern plantation, British butlers, what had Pete’s life turned into?

“Thank you, Morris,” Wright said with a smile, but he hesitated. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, “you look a bit…disturbed.”

“It’s…it’s nothing, sir,” Morris returned softly, even as he looked towards the main room where Pete could see people dancing and talking amongst themselves. And then he saw him. Or rather, them.

Pete had seen…startling amounts of public displays of affection in the others’ worlds, but in _his_… The woman draping herself over the man that was dressed in a platinum-colored suit, that…that was not normal in his. He wondered whether it would be normal among the others. His hand slipped towards her… Pete looked away.

“Oh, goodness,” Grace whispered, her eyes wide, a gray flush appearing on her face. “You could have mentioned…”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t have, ma’am,” Morris returned with a slight nod. “May I take your coats?” Pete handed his over numbly, Morris not even commenting at what was bundled up within it, Grace and Wright doing the same. “Thank you, please enjoy the party.”

They entered together, doing their best to ignore what was happening. The platinum man whispering something softly in the woman’s ear. But he turned to them brightly with a smile, “Ah, don’t mind us,” he said, beaming, and Pete watched in slight surprise as Wright and Grace both turned their full attention to him, smiling. Pete took perhaps half a second to do the same. “Oh, a new one,” the unknown man said, “please let go, dear,” he whispered to the unknown woman, who did so immediately. “Hello,” he said, walking over to Pete. “Do you two mind giving us a moment?” he asked, nodding to Wright and Grace, “I assure you I’ll take good care of the newbie.”

“No, not at all,” Wright returned easily, and Pete was certain now more than ever that Something was Very Wrong with this man. Something that might have been Curse-Born, or perhaps even God-Born. Either way, Pete decided right then and there that short of telling him to take his own life or causing serious bodily harm, he would do whatever the man asked of him, because he had a rather instinctive understanding that if Pete did not…this man would notice.

“Of course, you wouldn’t,” the man laughed, and turned to Pete. “Hello there," he said with a grin, “What’s your name?”

“Williams,” Pete returned easily, “Mark Williams.”

“Oh! So, _you’re_ the Mark Williams I’ve been hearing so much about. You don’t mind me using your first name, do you Mark?”

“I…” Pete hesitated, unsure whether that was a command or a question, and so finally, “do mind a little.”

“I’ll call you Mark, then,” he said with a smile, and Pete allowed himself to say,

“Yes.”

“Good, very good,” the man’s smile broadened, and Pete was very much aware of how many teeth he bared in a perfectly straight smile. His eyes were cruel, but there was a bit of boredom to the gaze, too. The gaze of someone who always got what he wanted, and didn’t care at whose expense it was. “Well, Mark, my name is Killgrave, Zebediah Killgrave,” he smiled. “You may call me Killgrave.”

“Killgrave,” Pete repeated with a slight nod. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Indeed, indeed, I’m sure the pleasure is all yours.” Killgrave sighed. “Tell me, do you like my little minx?” he asked, gesturing to the woman that Pete figured had to be around Rio’s age, or really old enough to be his mother. Pete figured the safest answer was,

“Yes, I think she’s quite pretty,” which was…true, but a bit of a lie at the same time.

“Oh, well, I appreciate the honesty,” Killgrave returned in what might have been something of a joke for he laughed directly afterwards. Pete was starting to realize that the others weren’t getting near them, that Killgrave seemed to be in his own little bubble, and due to proximity so was Pete. “Unfortunately, she’s mine, so all you can do is look. Though…I could let you look at a bit _more_…”

Pete did not know how to respond to this one, momentarily struck by a desperate urge to be anywhere but in this conversation. “What’s her name?” he asked finally, something he knew to be a clumsy attempt at misdirection, but it was the only thing he could think of.

“Oh, of course, where are my manners,” Killgrave smiled. “Won’t you tell this nice gentleman your name?”

“Jessica Jones,” Jones replied, her voice inflectionless, but a smile pulled on her mouth all the same. The more Pete looked at her, the more he felt like she had been drugged, or…_something_. The same something that was affecting everyone else, only perhaps…_concentrated_. The more he looked at her the more he knew he had to get her out of this situation.

Killgrave was an animal, and he needed to be put down like one.

“Nice to meet you,” he said with a nod, keeping his voice gentle.

“Now that we are all friends, please, Mark, come with me, I have some people to introduce you to. Tell me, do you like champagne?”

“I’ve never had it,” Pete answered honestly.

“Oh?” Killgrave repeated, turning to look at him. “What a shame, we’ll have to correct that.” Killgrave took two glasses from a passing server, handing one over to Pete. “I want you to see something, Mark,” Killgrave smiled. “You’ll have hazy memories of it afterwards, of course, but it’s nonetheless something that I feel you need to see.” Killgrave walked over to one of the women near him, and handed her the glass, “please spill this all over yourself,” he said softly, and she immediately did so, staining what looked to be a monstrously expensive dress, and Pete momentarily felt a flash of ire. She looked down at the stain then, and Pete watched as tears started to bead in her eyes.

Pete felt as that flash caught fire and began to burn deep inside. Pete knew nothing about the woman’s choices. He knew nothing about whether or not she was with her husband by choice, whether she suffered from the same hatred that her husband did that brought him here, or whether she stood between death by proclaiming her disgust with the Klan, or death by poverty should she run. But _that_? That had been done without choice, and Pete felt nothing but disgust.

“Oh, that was so clumsy, darling, why don’t you come with me?” Killgrave offered softly, and Pete instantly felt as that fire turned to ice. She took Killgrave’s hand as it was offered and he pulled her along with him, laughing, and speaking to others with the woman hanging off of his arm. “This is Mark, isn’t he,” he asked, looking to Pete with those eyes, and Pete hated him, he hated him so much. When Killgrave’s hand began slipping towards the woman’s stained dress Pete allowed himself to trip over the rug, splashing the man with the champagne he had yet to drink.

He could take whatever punishment came from it, but he was _not_ going to let him do _that_.

Killgrave just laughed. “Oh, you’re a clumsy sort, aren’t you?” he asked, ducking down enough to pat Pete’s cheek twice. “No wonder people keep…_hurting_ you.” Pete stared into eyes that loathed him with everything in them, and idly thought that if this had been a year ago, Pete would have been intimidated. Now? The _world_ hated his guts. He’d have to do better. But it was a challenge that went unvoiced, instead Pete allowed himself to curl down and away. “That’s fine,” Killgrave said finally, straightening. “I rather hated this suit anyway.” He stood up then, looking the woman over, and then tisking, “You’re not quite as attractive as I thought you were either. And so clumsy, spilling champagne all over yourself. You should be ashamed.”

The woman let out a mournful sound and left the room, and Pete watched as a man left after, calling her name.

Killgrave sighed, and then looked to Pete then. “Oh, yes, I had been meaning to introduce you to some people.” Killgrave smiled at him, “Where on earth are my manners. Follow me.” Pete did so as Killgrave took him to men and women that were introduced as higher in rank. Killgrave emphasized that none of them were the heads of the order, of course, they wouldn’t go to such a trivial party, but they were Cyclops and Dragons, nonetheless. Pete memorized their faces, memorized their names, and tried to pay attention to any hints that may be dropped as to their occupations. But Pete watched as each and every one of them did everything Killgrave said.

“Do you know why I’m showing you all this?” Killgrave asked finally, turning to him after having the wife of one man kiss the wife of another. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Mark?”

“No,” Pete answered, turning to him as Killgrave had not told him to keep watching. “Why?”

“Because I could own this order,” Killgrave said softly, “I could own it and everyone in it. But it, frankly, just seems…like too much work.”

Pete swallowed, tilting his head back. “I see,” he finally whispered. “Where do I come in?”

“Absolutely nowhere, you wonderful man,” Killgrave answered with a smile, “this is just the introduction I give to every new individual I meet. The longer you’re in my presence, you see, the stronger my hold on you. A part of you might find that frightening at first, I think. But soon…you won’t mind it. And eventually, you might even _like_ it.” Pete said nothing as the man leaned closer to him, before laughing aloud, and giving a thoughtful noise, looking into his eyes. “I think that’s enough for now. You may go back to your group. Don’t forget me, will you? Keep my image in your head when you sleep at night. What you do with it is entirely up to you.”

Killgrave laughed aloud and Pete walked away with the knowledge that he was going to kill that man burning bright and hot in his chest.

Pete found Wright and Grace in a corner, both of them watching as Killgrave went up to the original woman, one that Pete ached for deep in his soul, because he knew for a fact that she wanted nothing to do with the man who she immediately draped herself against. The idea that she might not have even been Klan was another thought. He hoped that killing him would free her from whatever spell she was under.

Pete might have to make sure that was the case before he killed him, he’d get no second chances.

“That man makes me so uncomfortable,” Grace whispered. “I don’t know why…but something about him.”

“I know what you mean,” Wright agreed softly. Pete felt that disgust rise up like gorge in his chest.

“Let’s just do our best to enjoy ourselves, shall we?” Wright said softly, and the two of them agreed. Pete fell into the rhythms of the party carefully, as well as he could. Every so often Killgrave would lob a command like a stick of dynamite and Pete was forced to follow whatever mad scheme he concocted.

Pete was able to do one thing, though, that he hadn’t expected but rather enjoyed.

He was able to steal an excessive amount of food, only making it seem like he barely took any. It was a calculated move he used to pull with Robbie back when they worked together in some of the bigger party operations. Jameson had caught wind of it once and he’d laughed so hard he’d almost gotten sick. Just keep taking the same things, and carefully always make it seem like there was the same amount. The trick was to keep moving and socialize where he could, and Pete aimed to do that to the best of his ability.

Wright had told him to network, and he planned to, though not, perhaps, for the reason Wright had anticipated. Pete intended to network in order to keep tabs on everyone, figure out who was high enough in the food chain that he could attempt to get usable information from them. He was still very careful about his questions, and he was always circling.

Pete was always aware of the possibility that someone might realize he was taking too much time with them.

And then he saw Johnson.

Pete was already on edge. This was almost too much. Johnson spotted him at the same time that Pete spotted him, and Pete braced himself as well as he could. Johnson approached, bringing a woman with him. She was younger than her husband, and she had a wicked glint in pale gray eyes that were almost like glass. Her lips were painted black, and she had curled them into a playful sneer as her husband leaned closer to her and whispered something in her ear, probably telling her who he was.

Pete did not like that. Pete did not like that at _all_.

“Hello, Williams,” Johnson said, smiling. “It’s good to see you here, I had wondered if you would make it.”

“The Wrights invited me,” Pete answered, nodding his head towards the two of them, for a moment watching as they laughed with another couple – Mr. and Mrs. Fink, husband a Cyclops, a proud head of the Order, wife racist enough that she laughed about the music they were playing and how the…_ones involved_…were somehow able to produce something good as an opening line.

“I’m glad they did,” Johnson said. “I might have done it myself, but I had already invited you to dinner on Friday. This is my wife, by the way, Judy,” he said, indicating the woman.

“Charmed,” Pete said, bowing his head slightly to her. She tilted her chin back, that sneer spreading.

“Indeed, my husband has told me about you. Your skin really _is_ quite remarkable. How on earth do you keep it such a shade?”

“Genetics,” Pete answered easily, “I have only two skin colors and that is white and _burnt_.”

They laughed easily.

“Yes, well, that is to be expected, I’d assume,” Judy pouted slightly, the glitter on her eyelids catching the light as she batted them. “I do have an _awful_ habit of graying, but it is what it is, I suppose.” She smiled at him, but there was no warmth to the look. It was a crocodile smile, all scaly and reptilian and _cold_. “Are you enjoying the party, Mr. Williams?”

“I am, rather,” Pete answered with a nod. “It’s been very informative, honestly. I’ve missed so many meetings…” he trailed off, and the look on her face had gentled slightly in a display of sympathy. There was still nothing behind her eyes, and Pete knew instantly that he had found someone that likely shared the same tendencies as her husband, the same drive.

The pit in his stomach grew and Pete was suddenly dreading Friday more than he had.

“It must be very hard,” she returned softly, giving a slight nod and a pout. “I do hope that you’ve found yourself able to connect with everyone well enough.”

“I do think so,” Pete nodded.

“Not…_too_ connected, I’d hope,” she demurred, and Pete wanted to crawl into a corner somewhere and hide. He felt filthy under that gaze, and Pete finally managed to take a step back, looking away.

“No, of course not,” he returned softly.

“Oh, yes, of course, your poor wife,” she sighed. “Well, don’t keep yourself out of the game for too long. A man needs a wife, wouldn’t you agree, dear?”

“I would indeed, love,” Johnson returned softly, and the look he gave her made Pete’s skin crawl.

“It’s nice to meet you, Williams,” she simpered, the look in her eyes sharp, “I expect to see you on Friday.”

“I will be there.”

Pete managed to walk away and found that he no longer felt much like eating, and so for the first time he fully finished his plate. The ease with which he slid back into the conversations with the others was slightly hampered with the sudden weight of Friday looming large upon the horizon.

It was a half an hour later that Pete felt the energy in the party start to change. Starting to feel on edge, Pete’s skin crackled with it, the spidersense that had been buzzing quietly the entire time turning into a full-on scream in the back of his skull.

If he would have managed to get out of here without a headache before this was very much not the case now.

It would be difficult to report to the others, but Pete would do his best, weakness be fucking _damned_. He had no time for it.

Finally, Smith, the man who had brought them all together called a toast, calling everyone to order, and Pete’s attention turned to him fully, his attention fully peaked.

“I hope that you have all enjoyed yourselves,” Smith said, smiling widely. “It has been my wife and I’s great pleasure to host you. I’ve been looking forward to this event all year, as I am sure that you all have as well.” He paused for laughter and applause, and there was a polite smattering of it, Pete careful to applaud as well. “I wanted to thank you for your marvelous turn-out, and hope that you have all been enjoying yourselves. Now, however, is the time for your wives to go home while the men go on.” He smiled at them thinly, “I think it’s high time we burn some Catholics, don’t you?”

“Ah…” came a sudden voice, a voice that Pete recognized from earlier and a voice he was not expecting. Pete turned as well as the rest of them, to all regard Killgrave, who was holding two women, one of them Jessica Jones, and the other one another man’s wife, Rose Mathews. “You know, I don’t really feel up for this. In fact, I don’t think we should do this at all.” Killgrave stood up then, and those that had been sitting stood with him, and Pete was going to break his bones and tear out his… “I think it’s best that we all go home. We had a marvelous time, didn’t we? Yes? Then let’s that be that. Personally, I rather like the women that I’m with, and I’d rather not leave them just yet. Don’t you all agree?”

There was a nod of agreement, and Killgrave smiled. “Then that’s settled then,” he said. “It was a wonderful party. Thank you for the use of your women, and your wine, and your home. It was delightful. Goodnight everybody.”

So, saying, Killgrave gave a bow, and began to leave, bringing Jones and Mathews along with him. Pete knew that he would never get the chance to follow him again, and as the rest of them dispersed, Pete knew for a fact that Killgrave was too dangerous to let live. If he was able to control what they wanted so wholly, able to control what they chose to do, if he was able to send them off on some wild whim, what would happen if he told them all to _attack_? There would be madness, chaos, and while he hadn’t done that so far, men like Killgrave would get _bored_.

This could _not_ be allowed to happen.

He took his robes, begged off having Wright drive him home, saying he’d take a taxi, and pulled the prosthetics off of his wrists as soon as he was outside of the home and far enough away.

Schmidt had done wonders for his clothing, as they held not just pockets, but the padding could be removed and replaced with something else. Pete had done so and had worked his Spider uniform into the lining that would hold the padding, carefully folding and shaping it so it could work easily. He waited until there were no eyes and then he switched to the rooftops, moving as quickly as he could and keeping as much distance as possible now that Killgrave was in motion. Pete was not going to let him get away. Luckily, the man went on foot, taking Jones with him, Mathews left alone some distance away, shivering and cold.

Pete paused long enough to ring the doorbell of a house with a web, causing the occupants to exit and find the woman standing there shivering and crying. They’d take care of her; Pete could spare no time.

Pete watched as Killgrave leaned towards Jones and she mouthed… Pete shut his brain off from what he was observing, compartmentalizing everything down into a knot that he shoved deep in his chest and would never look at again. As he followed Killgrave’s easy walk he pulled his mask on, pulling on the goggles. Killgrave walked like he didn’t have a care in the world, like nothing could phase him, and Pete expected that nothing really had. 

Pete hissed, low and slow, unable to help the sound that rose deep within him, meeting the wind and echoing along it. They made no move that they had heard, too lost in both their own confidence and Killgrave’s own sway.

The man, thus far, had no reason to be scared.

Pete would bring him the horror that visited him every day, would teach him what it meant. It would be a final gift before the end, he thought, because it was obvious that Killgrave was bored, and there was nothing more awakening than terror.

The two of them moved with such listless ease that Pete was able to change into his uniform on the move, balling each clothing item up and wrapping it in silk for easy storage. He would plant it wherever the two of them finally stopped. The entire time they walked, Killgrave spoke, and Jones leaned into him, laughing, talking nonsense, just so long as she talked, and Killgrave gently stroked her.

Pete hated him, he hated him enough that the hiss hadn’t left him, and he knew that he needed to calm before he approached them. The idea of killing Killgrave outright without letting him know fear was too abhorrent, particularly as he watched this display. How dare he, how _dare_ he? Perhaps…perhaps…

Finally, Killgrave and Jones made their way to a house that once again seemed entirely too grand for the two of them. Opulent and striking, it was gated and kept farther back. There were empty houses around him, Pete noticed, and he didn’t doubt that the man had emptied them of neighbors with a word, and he doubted that the occupants had had a backup.

What that meant, though, was there was no one around to hear him _scream_.

The only thing Pete had been unable to bring with him were his boots, and he missed them already, but they would have been a dead giveaway, and Pete couldn’t afford that. Pete still needed to tailor the pants he was wearing at some point, and the thought brought him, with a pang, to Schmidt. He hadn’t gone to meet the Schmidts yet, and he found himself regretting it.

Pete realized he was compartmentalizing too much and let some of the burning in his chest out. It caught fire again and soon, soon Pete was ready to set Killgrave’s world ablaze. He wrapped the full costume of Mark Williams into a ball of silk, hiding it with the Klan robes that he wouldn’t need, and made his way to the roof.

Sticking his ball of clothing under the eaves, Pete slowly crawled along the outside of the house, listening and peering in through the windows, a slip of shadow in the moonlight.

It didn’t take him long until he thought he had found them, the sound of a man and a woman… Pete shattered the window of the adjacent room and crawled his way in, hearing the sounds stop.

“Well, well,” Pete heard Killgrave’s voice hum as Pete crawled into the corner of the room that Pete took to be a guestroom, blending into the shadows, “that sounds rather unfortunate. Would you mind checking on that sound, dear?”

Pete was momentarily startled that Killgrave didn’t do it himself, sending a woman to do _this_? But when the door was thrown open so roughly it impacted the wall and wobbled its way back weakly, Pete realized that the woman wasn’t all that she had seemed, either. He was honestly surprised the force hadn’t shattered the door.

Jones walked forward, her dress hanging partially off of her, her eyes still glazed, and the door was closed behind her.

Pete crouched in the shadows, considering, and then slowly crawled forward into the moonlight, and therefore into her gaze. There was a possibility that there was a previous order, one where Jones was to take care of whatever was there, but Killgrave had not said what to _do_, he had just said to check on the sound. Pete watched as hazy gray eyes widened, surprise bringing a clarity to the gaze, and for a moment the two of them stared at each other.

“My name is Nothing,” Pete said softly, “I’m just the monster living under your bed.”

Jones’ expression shifted, confusion and uncertainty mixing.

“What is it, darling?” Killgrave’s voice called out.

“It’s Nothing,” Jones answered, that expression slipping back into stillness, “just the monster living under your bed.”

“The monster under my bed, is it?” Killgrave asked, and there was amusement in his voice. “What’s it doing all the way over there when my bed is over here?” He hummed quietly, and finally there was the sound that Pete had wanted, the sound of creaking springs as he stood up and walked over.

Pete eyed Jones, and quietly, so quietly, “Jones,” he whispered, “I’m here to get you out. I’m here to set you _free_.” Jones seemed to recognize this, and that clarity had sharpened, and she opened her mouth, something like joy in her gaze, in her face. “I need you to _resist_ him, okay, for as long as you can. If you can’t, it’s fine, but…”

“Restrain me,” she managed, her voice coming out strained, like squeezing water from a stone, “I can…I’m _strong_…please…don’t let…him take me…don’t want…hurt you…” and there were tears in her eyes.

Pete immediately moved to web her, using as much as he could spare to stick her to the ceiling, careful about how he touched her, whispering that he would get her down, that it would be okay, and then he moved to the opposite corner, to the one above the door. Killgrave creaked the door open then, humming, only to freeze at the sight of Jones webbed to the opposite side of the room.

“What…on earth?” he whispered.

Pete dropped down behind him, and Killgrave stumbled forward, before turning around. Like Pete had expected, that momentary flash of fright turned to surprise, narrow-eyed consideration, and finally…

Delight.

“Oh!” Killgrave managed, “Oh-ho! I know _you_! You’re that…you’re that Spider fellow. My, you’re an awful long way from your usual routes, aren’t you? But that’s alright. I had always, _always_ wanted to get my hands on you. You seemed like such a…wonderful thing to have on my side.” 

As he said this Jones’ let out a sob, and Pete knew that she was afraid. She was afraid _for_ him, for Killgrave gaining control.

It was not the fear he wanted.

Pete would try again.

“You must be mistaken,” Pete said, and his voice was the way that it got when he spoke to the Nazis, when he spoke to the worst of humanity, when he spoke to the Changed, “my name is Nothing, and to the Void is where I’ll take you.”

“I don’t know if I really like the sound of the Void,” Killgrave returned, frowning, “But you could absolutely take me to bed.”

Pete took a step towards him, his head tilting.

“Ah, no, that’s…really not…oh I suppose there is a bed in here, I think that would do, though it’s not as warm…”

“The Void is _cold_, Killgrave,” Pete whispered, his voice the awful sound of rasping leaves rubbing together like old and gnarled hands, “and that is the only place I will take you.”

Killgrave hesitated, taking a step backwards, and there was the start of something in that gaze, something that was Not. Yet. Fear.

“No, you see…” Killgrave cleared his throat, “Spider…”

“Nothing,” Pete returned softly. “I’m Nothing.”

“No, no, I know who you are, you see, you’re the _Spider_,” Killgrave returned. “And really, you should be doing everything that I say, you…” Killgrave laughed, and his voice had a tremble, had started to rise in pitch. “You need to do everything that I say, my power works on _everything_ and…” he stopped, his voice fading, as he stared at Pete as he closed in.

“I’m Nothing,” Pete said softly.

[Finally. Finally](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krxU5Y9lCS8), there was the beginnings of fear. “No,” Killgrave whispered, “that’s…that’s impossible. You…” he took a breath, “You _have_ to listen to me,” he said, and his voice was strong, “I’ve ordered Changed before, you’re not anything special. You can’t…you can’t resist me. You can’t touch me. You _won’t_ touch me, you will stop there, actually. No, you will _leave_. You will leave right now, and you won’t come back, you will forget everything that you learned about me.”

“Killgrave,” Pete whispered softly, “you keep forgetting,” and he watched as Killgrave backed away, trembling, falling into the bed behind him, “you can’t order Nothing.”

Killgrave let out a soft sound, trembling, and then finally, “No! No, you can’t…you can’t touch me! You don’t understand! _I’m_ the victim here!”

Pete froze, for one instant so utterly floored that he stopped his slow forward creep.

“Yes, yes,” Killgrave called out, “_I’m_ the victim! I’m the one you should be saving. I…why weren’t you there to save _me_? When they…when they tortured me, and twisted me, when they offered me up and…and… They _took_ me! They took me, and they tore me open from the inside out, and poured…they poured _It_ into me.” Killgrave was crying then, openly weeping, “Why weren’t you there to save me? You Reached, you…you _asked_ for this fate, but me…?”

Pete felt that anger burn, and he stood up, towering over the man that stared up at him and slowly began to crawl away, getting tangled in the sheets in his fear.

“Personal tragedy does not remove accountability,” Pete said, his voice half-hiss, low and disgusted and rattling low in his chest. “Your own fate does not give you permission to cause pain to others. It does not give you permission to touch others, to hurt others. You are not put here to cause pain, when you could have stopped the entirety of the Klan in its tracks, when you could have put an end to the entirety of the Nazi party…”

“Okay, okay,” Killgrave returned, waving at him, “I see, I see the error of my ways, I do! I see…I should have…I should have _helped_ people, I should have. I could! Even now, I could.”

“Could you?” Pete asked softly. “Tell me, Killgrave, can you release everyone from your power right now?”

“Yes,” Killgrave answered, smiling, “yes, absolutely, I shall…I shall do it… Yes, everyone I have commanded, you have your right to your will, you have the right to your own power, you have the right to your bodies, to your souls.”

Pete watched as Jones took a gasping breath, her eyes and expression as clear as they had ever been, and then she started sobbing, falling into the webbing that held her.

Pete turned his gaze away.

“See,” Killgrave said, “it’s all…it’s all fixed, they’re all… They have their own will now. Surely…surely that’s enough, right?”

“What’s enough?” Pete asked softly.

“Surely that’s enough that you won’t…you won’t _kill_ me,” Killgrave returned, and his expression was wild, his eyes pleading. Pete smiled at him unseen, even as he edged closer. “Please…please, you can’t…you can’t kill me. You can’t. Just…Please, _please_, tell me, how are you…how can you _resist_ this? How can you…?”

Pete hesitated. “The thing that poured itself into me refuses to watch me stumble around under the will of someone else.” Pete leaned closer. “You see, Killgrave, _I_ am a victim, and you…well…” Pete tilted his head. “If you were ever a victim, that man has gone, and the only thing that’s left is a monster.”

“No,” Killgrave whispered. “No, no! You can’t, you can’t kill me! You can’t kill me; you can’t do it! Please, please don’t kill me!” he had switched to sobbing, to screaming, and Pete tilted his head.

“Ah, Killgrave…” he smiled, “I think it’s time that you learn what everyone else had to a long time ago…”

Pete leaned closer, a knife a heavy weight in his palm.

“You can’t always get what you want,” Pete whispered into his ear, and then he struck. The screams were music, and when they were done, Pete pulled back, and cleaned the blade on Killgrave’s sleeve.

Pete took a breath and looked up at Jones then, who was staring down at them with wide eyes, drinking in the sight of the blood staining the bed, staining _him_. “Do you want to do the honors?” he asked, and Jones looked to him with wide eyes. “I slit through his vocal chords,” Pete frowned, looking down to the pale eyes that were staring at him with utter terror in their gaze, the gurgling of breath in his throat as he slowly drowned on his own blood, prevented from bleeding out too quickly by the webbing that Pete had applied.

“He can’t speak a word to you,” Pete said, frowning. “He’ll never speak another word again. If you wanted me to cut you down…if you wanted to do the honors, you could. You have maybe two minutes before he bleeds out. Choose quickly.”

Jones stared at him for a moment, her eyes wild and confused, and then, budding in them that bit of hope, of _delight_, “Let me do it,” she whispered. “Let me do it.”

Pete was immediately up and next to her, pulling the webbing from her, cutting it where he needed to, and carefully helping her to the ground. “Knife?” he asked, holding it out. “I have a gun, too…how?”

“I want…” she licked her lips. “I want a…_really_ **_big_** knife…”

Pete immediately pulled the knife that had once stabbed through his side and ripped out his own kidney from the sheath he had sewn into his coat, holding it out to her hilt-first.

Jones took it with trembling hands, staring down at it in surprise, and then she looked to Killgrave. Pete watched with a smug feeling of satisfaction as she rose that knife up, and then drove it down. Killgrave let out a silent scream, and Jones ripped the knife out, unmindful of the bone she had buried it in, and she sunk it in again.

Pete watched as she did this long past the point when Killgrave was dead, long past the point where he was recognizable, and finally, Jones collapsed to the ground, trembling, and screaming. She wept and she wept, and Pete stood next to her, for a moment unsure, “Do you…” he started softly.

“Hold me,” she gasped out, “_please_ hold me,” and Pete dropped down immediately, carefully lifting her dress back into place and wrapping her in his arms. She clung to him, pulling herself close, and Pete was shocked at the strength she held him with. It felt like hugging one of the other Spiders, and he knew then more than ever that something was _very_ different about the woman Killgrave had taken. Pete held her until she had sobbed herself out, until she was rasping, and trembling, and had started to pull back. Pete immediately let go, moving back and putting his hands on his lap, clearly visible.

Jones wiped at her eyes, further adjusting her dress, and looked to the corpse on the bed again. “So,” she said finally, clearing her throat. “Do I…do I call you Nothing, or the Monster under the Bed?”

“You can call me Spider, Miss Jones,” Pete returned.

“Then you can call me Jessica,” Jessica smiled, and Pete hesitated, before giving a slight nod.

“Alright, Jessica,” Pete agreed. “Do you…” Pete hesitated. “Is there anything here that you need? Any clothes?”

“What do you mean?” Jessica asked.

“I’m going to burn the house down, or…well, that’s the _plan_. Would you like to help me?” Pete asked, tilting his head.

Jessica hesitated, and looked at the corpse once again. “I would love to,” she said finally and started to stand up. “But I…” she hesitated. “I don’t want…”

“Jessica,” Pete said softly, “I understand not wanting to take any reminders of what happened to you with you, but you cannot leave here with nothing. You need money, clothes, I can help you with a place to stay, but…” he hesitated. “You need _something_. Do you have records of yourself, who you are? A drivers license, an ID card, something?”

“Yes,” Jessica answered, “yes, I do,” she said finally, and stood up. “I’ll…I’ll pack, can you…”

“What do you want me to do?” Pete asked softly.

“Can you come with me?”

“I’ll be wherever you need me.” Jessica nodded, and Pete moved to the ceiling, Jessica watching this as he crawled after her. “Making you uncomfortable?” Pete asked, hesitating.

“No,” she said finally, shaking her head, “I just…” she took a breath. “You aren’t a normal Changed.”

Pete hesitated, realizing that she had been there when he had told Killgrave _he’d_ been a victim, and Pete sighed. “No,” he finally answered softly, “I’m not. But you can’t… You can’t tell anyone,” he whispered. “What happened to me…if people knew…”

“What happened?” she asked softly.

There was a moment when Pete carefully weighed what he was going to tell her, whether he was going to tell her the truth. But the fact of the matter was that Jessica needed someone. She needed someone that understood, and so Pete, quietly, softly,

“I had my soul forcefully taken,” Pete sighed. “My body, my soul, the only thing that’s truly left of me is my mind and my will…” he hesitated, “and even that was taken once.” Jessica turned to look up at him, her eyes wide. “A mutant, Charles Xavier, entered my mind and took me over for two days. The thing that already stole me wasn’t appreciative. It ripped me from his will because it got bored watching me, and then made it so it would never happen again.” He hesitated, looking back towards Killgrave. “Which _he_ found out.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, looking away, “for telling me…” she swallowed. “Does it…does it get _better_?” she finally asked, looking away, looking at the corpse lying on the bed.

Pete was quiet for a moment, hesitating. “With the proper support it becomes bearable,” he whispered. “But in my case…in my case it isn’t over. It still _has_ me, Jessica, so I can’t speak to what will happen to you, whether you will wake up one day and this will all be a distant memory. But I hope so,” Pete breathed. “I _hope_ so.”

Jessica turned to him, looking up to meet his goggled eyes. “What’s support for you?” she asked. “Do you have people you can turn to?”

Pete blinked. “I…” he hesitated, thinking of all that he was doing, of all that he had done, and quietly, “not right now…” he hesitated. “No, that’s not…that’s not true, I have…I have someone.”

“Count me among the number,” Jessica frowned up at him, and Pete blinked, looking down at her in surprise.

“Jessica, I can’t _possibly_ ask you to…”

“You’re not asking,” Jessica returned with her chin tilting up, “I’m telling you.”

Pete tilted his head slightly, “Isn’t that infringing a bit on what _I_ want?”

Jessica flinched, before turning to stare at him further. “You’re right, can I plead my case?”

Pete hesitated, before finally dropping before her. “Yes,” he said. “But I get the right to say no.”

Jessica nodded, before walking over to a nearby dresser made of what looked to be solid oak before lifting it up over her shoulder, easily holding it there and turning to look at him. “I’m not Cursed,” she said, “I was…I was in an accident. It killed my…it killed my family and spared me. And made me…” she gestured at herself and slowly lowered the dresser down. “This isn’t the only thing I can do,” she frowned. “But the point is, I’m…I’m _strong_, and I’m able to handle…so much. It’s the…it’s the main reason he wanted me…” she spat to the side. “But I can _understand_, Spider. I can…I may not understand what it is to be Cursed, not wholly. But I do know what it is to be taken mind, body, and soul,” she said, and her irises were black, Pete suddenly noticed, without Killgrave’s influence they were black and hard as chipped diamond. “It’s a burden I can share. He took me for six months.”

Pete made a soft sound, “Six _months_?” he repeated softly, “_Fuck_, Jessica, I’m _sorry_. I hadn’t known he even existed, I would have…” he shook his head, “I would have made him suffer _more_, I should have… I wanted to get rid of his ability to talk as quickly as possible, I was worried that…should he have said something…”

“I would have attacked you from above,” Jessica said, and her voice was gentle, no accusation, “I understand. And frankly…frankly I think watching him beg, listening to him _scream_…it was the best gift you could have given me.”

Pete hesitated, before giving a slight nod, “Then I’m glad. I wish I could have…”

“Save it, Spider,” Jessica said, swiping her hand across her chest. “You did what was necessary. You gave me the right to _choose_…” her voice broke and she took a moment. “Thank you.”

Pete nodded.

“Did…did this Xavier…what did he…do to you?”

Pete looked down, looked away, “I don’t know,” he finally whispered. “I don’t know what any of them did to me,” he said softly.

“_Any_?” Jessica repeated, “how many…how many were there?”

“I’m not sure,” Pete whispered, “it was a…safe-haven for mutants. And I don’t _know_ what they did to me, or what they made me do. I can’t remember _anything_.”

Jessica was silent for the longest time, staring at him with horror and what might have been disgust on her face. “I don’t know what’s better, Spider,” she whispered finally, “knowing every single disgusting thing that you were made to do…or having no knowledge of what you did.”

Pete gave a soft noise, “Let’s say they both suck and call it a day,” he returned, and Jessica smiled.

“Agreed,” she said, taking a breath. “But this brings me back to my initial point, Spider…I can understand you in ways that no one else can, and you can understand me. We could support each other, work with each other. Surely between the two of us…” Jessica hesitated. “I want to be useful,” she said finally, and her voice was soft and frustrated. “I want to do _something_. I want to help, I _can_ help. I…tried once. And then Killgrave found me, and he…he took me, but I _can help_. _You_ save people. The people you save might be afraid of you, but I have a feeling they’d be afraid of me, too, even if I’m not Cursed. Please, let me help you.”

Pete was silent for a long moment. “Please, Jessica,” he said finally, softly, “what you’re asking me to do requires more trust than I have given to anyone in a very long time. It requires believing that you’ll watch my back and requires the ability to tell you the truth. It also involves bringing you back among the people you are likely to hate. Did you want to be around the Klan?”

“No,” Jessica spat, and her black eyes were hard as steel, “I hate them, they are…filthy _evil_ people. They would count me negro if you can believe it. My grandfather was a negro man, which in their eyes puts me among the number.”

Pete raised an eyebrow, “one-drop rule,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Jessica returned. “It’s funny, the things they use to assert control.”

“Then you definitely can’t help me,” Pete returned giving her a nod.

“Why,” Jessica asked, and her eyes spat sparks, “you think I’m not good enough to help Mark Williams spy?”

Pete didn’t move, his body held perfectly still, and then he aimed his gun right between her eyes, pulling back the hammer.

“Relax, Spider,” Jessica hushed him with barely a flinch, “I see what you mean about the lack of trust but listen. Your voice when you’re trying to be soothing is a lot closer to Williams’ voice than you might want, so that might be something to work on. I also recognized your shoes. But that does not mean I’m going to blow the whistle on you, even if you say no.”

Pete didn’t move for a moment, before he finally uncocked the gun, putting it back in its holster on his leg. “Soothing, huh?” he repeated softly.

“I don’t know what else I’d call it,” Jessica shrugged. “It got _softer_. You’re…actually really good at disguising your voice. I’m guessing this is more normal, versus the way you talked to Killgrave…” she said, raising her eyebrows significantly.

“Yes,” Pete returned finally. “Fuck.” He ducked down for a moment, “_fuck_…”

“Now you know, Spider,” she said shrugging. “You haven’t talked to anyone as Mark Williams that would hear you talk as the Spider, I’m sure, and certainly no one that would need to be spoken to softer as that either. No one but me, at least.” Jessica looked to the side. “I was a detective at one point,” she finally said softly, catching Pete’s attention. “I think that’s the other thing that attracted Killgrave to me. I was out of my station and working… I hate him.”

“I’d hate him to,” Pete returned softly, looking away, and then quietly, “I _do_ hate him.”

“Mark’s not your real name?”

“No,” Pete answered finally.

“What is?”

“That name is dead,” Pete sighed. “There’s no use giving it to you. The bones of that life are in the dirt.”

“Then _Spider_,” Jessica said finally, “I can help you spy. Together, I’m sure that we can get more information than alone. They might trust you more, too, if…”

“If what?”

“You lost your wife, right? That’s your backstory? I just lost my lover.”

Pete was quiet for a moment. “Are you suggesting, Miss Jones…that you turn to me for comfort…and we…”

“Why not?” she asked. “It would be a strong backstory. I could go places you can’t, I can talk to other women and learn what they do. Women talk, you know, even when men aren’t present.”

“I would have never insinuated otherwise,” Pete said, leaning back a bit, surprised by the sudden hostile tone. “I’m not hesitating because I don’t think you could gain good information, or women don’t talk; I’m hesitating because I just…” he paused, framing his thoughts. “Are you sure you want to get into another relationship again, even a pretend one? Are you sure you _want_ to be that close to me? I would follow proper etiquette of course, but…there are implications and expectations.”

“I don’t care if you’re Cursed,” Jessica frowned. “I’m not…perhaps I should be, but I’m not afraid of you. You saved my life. I’m _indebted_ to you. Even if you won’t let me help in the way I want I will still try to find ways to help you. Unless, of course, you tell me to go away entirely. I will listen to that command, Spider, but I ask you not to give it.”

Pete was quiet for a moment. “I don’t even know if this will _work_,” Pete finally said. “For starters we aren’t sure what exactly Killgrave told others. If they suddenly understand…” he rubbed his face through the mask. “How could we _possibly_…suggest that you were mourning him? Wouldn’t they…?”

“You have more belief in the Klan’s ability to accept the fact that they were wrong, or they were fooled,” Jessica returned simply with her head tilted back. “I’ve been with them for six months and they will do just about everything to deny the fact that they were or are wrong. If the choice is between, they let one singular man command them all, or Killgrave was a charismatic man that they somehow all loved…they’ll choose that one. Some might choose the truth, but they will be hushed, and there’s nothing that they love more than to silence the people that want to talk against their core beliefs.”

Pete was quiet for a moment, and then softly, emphatically, “_Fuck_.”

“You’re going to do it?”

“We’re going to finish here, you’re going to pack, we’re going to burn this entire place to the _fucking_ ground, and then I’m going to take us both to my Handler. He’s going to help us fine-tune what we’re doing and help us make excuses, _if we can_. Once that’s done…” Pete hesitated. “You have to find a way to win yourself over to the other people in this operation and they… They’re going to be a hard sell.”

“You’ll find me rather persuasive,” Jessica said, and the smile she gave him was dark. “I persuaded you, didn’t I? After you held a gun to my head?”

Pete hesitated. “I suppose,” he said quietly. “I am…so-”

“No,” Jessica held her hand up. “I understood it was a risk. You wouldn’t have hurt me anyway.”

Pete hesitated.

“Durable skin,” she said, knocking herself in the head with a fist twice with a wink.

“I wish I was bulletproof,” Pete found himself mumbling, and Jessica grinned.

“I kind of wish I could climb on walls and swing across the city, so I suppose not being able to get what we want is common,” and she grinned at him, “that, Spider, was absolutely _brilliant_,” she whispered. “I will remember that for the rest of my life, and I thank you for it.”

Pete gave a tentative nod and gestured for Jessica to get her things. He paused then, thinking. “Fuck, wait, get your ID, all of the important documents you _usually_ carry with you and a bit of money. Change into something practical, something for walking in the snow, wear your thickest coat. If we can sell this, and even if we can’t I can still take you to someone that will dress you. If you…if you have your documents with you, and…does…_did_ Killgrave have a will with you in it? Do you have money?”

“I do have money,” Jessica agreed. “But Killgrave never wrote a will, he thought he was immortal,” she said with another of those sharp grins. “Are you suggesting that I was out taking a walk and came back to the house on fire?”

“It might be a bit strange if you were fully packed when the house burned to the ground on the same night that everyone suddenly remembers they hate him.”

Jessica nodded. “Fair point. I’ll get my things. Luckily, I always carried all of my identification with me.”

“Isn’t that a risk?” Pete found himself asking.

“I always wished that someone from my old life would come find me,” she whispered. “But I always thought I’d be so unrecognizable they wouldn’t know who I was unless I could show them. Killgrave didn’t know, and he wouldn’t have cared.”

Pete was quiet for a moment. “We can make it look like a gas leak. It’ll make the explosion bigger. There’s no one in the neighboring houses, so it won’t hurt anyone.”

Jessica smiled and the look was wide and almost feral. “I like the idea, Spider,” she said finally. “Thank you.”

Pete nodded and followed her into the main room, watching as Jessica picked through the dresser for her undergarments and other things. Upon realizing what she was doing, Pete grayed under his mask, and immediately went to the far corner, putting his face in it.

“That’s sweet, Spider, thank you,” Jessica said softly, “I’m sorry, I definitely should have warned you. It was…never much of a worry here before.”

“It’s fine,” he returned, still keeping himself very firmly pressed to that corner. “Just let me know when you’re changed.”

Jessica was humming under her breath as she changed, Pete heard, the song the same Cab Calloway number they were playing in the party. St. John’s Infirmary, the soft croon to her voice immediately recognizable. “I’m decent, Spider, you can look now.” Pete immediately turned, finding her dressed in the layered-up style Pete had expected to see her in first. She was just finishing adjusting her skirts after pulling on her stockings and Pete mildly wished that she had not told him she was done yet. “There,” she sighed. “Just give me a moment to get my documentation and stuff it in my wallet.”

“Do you normally carry lettuce on you?” Pete asked, crawling across the ceiling towards her. “Are you known to?”

“I am,” she agreed with a nod. “Though those that know me know I carry it in odd places. I always keep a bit in my bag, but admittedly I could carry more. Most of the people that would attempt to steal it can’t really.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Pete agreed softly. “But that’s good. Get as much as you would normally, and I’ll show you how to fake a gas leak.”

“You really know how to show a girl a good time,” she said with a wink and Pete felt heat rise to his face, momentarily glad that she couldn’t see it.

“Girls like explosions and stabbings,” he agreed with a slight nod, and Jessica gave an immediate burst of laughter. It was louder than he expected, as well as a bit heavier, but it was nice, and he had been hoping to get that sound out of her.

“Exactly,” she said with a nod. “Thank you.”

Pete gave a little nod.

Jessica went through and picked up her wallet and purse, finding money that had been stored under the mattress and the chair lining and working it into her coat lining, as well as her purse, and keeping a few rolls that she was going to put in her shoes, she explained. Pete was kind of impressed.

That was enough lettuce to keep this woman going for a while, he expected. Pete took her to the stove downstairs and began talking her through how to start the leak, and how to do it in such a way that it wouldn’t be immediately recognized as tampering, as well as making sure that it wasn’t going to suddenly catch fire until they were out of the house.

That done, Pete got Killgrave’s body and dragged him downstairs, setting him up in front of the stove, as well as the mattress and blankets that he’d killed Killgrave on. He didn’t really expect for anyone to really spend that much time examining the crime scene, the idea that Killgrave would have made plenty of enemies was always in the back of his mind, but it was nonetheless something he thought was pertinent. When this was done, he helped Jessica out of the house.

“How do you blow it up?” Jessica asked.

“You got a cigarette?” Pete asked her, and Jessica hesitated before rifling through her bag and finally pulling one out. Pete hummed, fishing out his book of matches and igniting one with his thumb. He brought the cigarette to his lips and lit it with the match, making sure it was burning strong, and then casually flicked it through the air.

There was one thing that was really interesting about commanding his own wind and that was the fact that it could sometimes be made to do something he wanted. Sometimes he thought it was because it was something that _It_ wanted, but nonetheless, when the cigarette was caught in a sudden upwards breeze, lofting it up and towards the house that they had stayed a fair distance from, it was something that Pete had expected.

As it fell down near the kitchen window that had been left open there was a brief pause…

And then it went off.

The explosion was so intense it blew out the windows of the nearest house, a giant white and platinum and brilliant silver explosion that bathed the rest of the street in a light so bright that it seemed to come from the sun itself. Pete let Jessica watch it for a moment, before indicating his back.

“It’s not the most proper of methods, but I can carry you to my cohort. I don’t think having you walk or hail a cab would be the best thing.”

“Mm,” Jessica hummed, “you know, I would…” and then to Pete’s absolute shock she started levitating off of the ground, and Pete took a few steps back in horror, staring at her as she floated there easily. “But I’m pretty sure I can follow you.”

Pete hesitated, looking at her for a moment, before finally shaking his head. “A couple reasons, one, you won’t know if anyone’s watching you, and two, you…well, you are just a bit more conspicuous. I know, and while I can’t fly, we’ll still move pretty fast. I just…I also don’t want you seeing exactly where I take you,” Pete whispered. “Not yet.”

“You can’t trust me yet,” Jessica sighed, lowering herself down to stand before him. “Alright, Spider, you win. Take me.”

Pete indicated that she climb onto his back, and carefully helped her adjust her length of skirts and her coat so it wasn’t in her way, or in his way. Once she was positioned Pete held up a strip of cloth which he watched Jessica wrap around her eyes.

“Alright,” she said, “I trust you. Take me there safe.”

Pete leapt, catching himself in a swing, and worked his way over towards Jameson’s.

This had been a long night, and he had a feeling that it was just going to get longer.


	8. Storms and Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions, Lies, Starvation and Hospitals. Things are heating up, even as Pete finds himself cold with an emotion he can't identify.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~ I hope everyone's weekend is going well, that people with exams are having good luck, and everyone is doing safe and well! 
> 
> This chapter is when stuff is going to start heating up for everyone. I don't want to make promises but I assume either three or four more chapters are going to be it before this particular story is finished. We'll definitely see~ As per usual, there are some:
> 
> Warnings: Someone is stabbed, they're fine,   
more discussion of what Killgrave has been up to and the way that the Klan thinks of him.   
Mmm...Chronic stupidity? LOL I don't think there's that much else. 
> 
> Reference wise: https://vintagedancer.com/1930s/women-1930s-fashion/ - this is kind of interesting if you all want to take a look at what 1930s women's fashion was like. I make a reference to their sleepwear here.

Pete came to Jameson’s window as quick as he could, mindful of the passenger he was carrying and attempting to keep it as smooth as possible. He came right up to the sill as soon as his spidersense registered it as safe, tapping on it hurriedly, and Jameson threw the window open a beat later. 

“Spider, what happened, who…?” there was a pause as Jameson caught sight of Jessica, Pete taking the opportunity to slide past him and put her on the floor. “…Spider…what is this? Who…?” Pete pulled her blindfold off, Jessica taking the moment to brush all of the hair out of her face and look around. Jameson had frozen, staring at her with wide eyes, and finally looked to Pete. “Spider…that’s _Jessica Jones_, how…”

“You _know_ her?” Pete asked.

“She…” Jameson shook his head and then walked over to Jessica, looking her over. “You went missing six months ago. People saw you in passing, but they could never catch up to you, or properly _find_ you, how…?”

Jessica stared at him, her eyes full of something like shock, something like joy, “you _recognize_ me?”

“Of course,” Jameson frowned, “I got my brats looking all over for you, I might have shown them your picture about a hundred times. You…” he hesitated, “bagging your pardon, ma’am, you _do_ look a bit rougher around the edges, but…”

“Those kids…” Jessica whispered, her eyes wide, “they were working for you?”

Jameson tilted his head back, before walking over to her and carefully taking her arm, guiding her to sit back down on the sofa. “Okay, sit down, ma’am,” he said gently, “we’re going to get you a drink and you’re going to talk. Or if you would prefer, Spider can explain.”

Jessica sat down weakly as Jameson looked to Pete, who went to grab the Jack’s famous from under the cupboard, filling the couple of fingers-full that Jameson had given him, and bringing it over to Jessica. She knocked it back without hesitation, taking a deep breath.

“I spent the last six months under the control of…an awful man, who literally commanded me mind, body, and soul.”

“He had the power to command others with his voice,” Pete confirmed, when Jameson looked momentarily like he was hesitant, and Jameson looked to him in shock. “I watched as he…did several things that…” he shook his head. Jameson let out a curse.

“How is that _possible_?”

“Born, I think,” Pete frowned. “God-Born and then twisted, or at least that’s what I got out of the backstory I allowed him.”

“_Fuck_,” Jameson hissed, “begging your pardon,” he said, looking to Jessica, and then sat down slowly. “Hand me one and pour yourself one, and another for her. You look like you need it.”

Jessica laughed, held her glass out, and Pete filled it, before taking two more glasses and carefully filling both of them, sliding his mask up enough to take a sip of his as he handed the other over to Jameson. Jameson knocked his back and held the glass out, Pete refilling it.

“Okay,” Jameson said softly, nursing this second glass. “So, you killed him.”

“Yes,” Jessica agreed. “Spider…gave me the opportunity and I took it. Stabbed him to death and then made it look like there was a gas leak. Blew up the house. It was pretty wonderful watching it go up in smoke.”

“…I can believe it…” Jameson finally managed with a slight nod.

“We came to you because I want to help,” Jessica frowned, and Jameson straightened up, leaning forward. “I was with the Klan for six months, even if that was just as Killgrave’s whore.” Her mouth twisted when she said it, and Jameson looked a bit like he wanted to contest the word choice, but he didn’t. “I know their ins and outs better than he does at the moment. I also know that he’s Mark Williams.”

Jameson’s head tilted back, and he looked to Spider immediately, his eyes sharp.

“She recognized my voice when I was trying to get her to calm down,” Pete said with a frown, “and my shoes.”

Jameson looked at them immediately, and gave a curse, “What did we learn?” he asked immediately with narrowed eyes.

“I have to do something about my boots,” Pete returned immediately, lowering his head and lifting his goggles enough to rub at his eyes. Pete was _tired_, it’d been a long series of days and he thought periodically that the constant stress was starting to get to him. Getting caught was just another added thing to worry about, because that meant he had to pay even more attention. He worked his goggles back down and looked up at them. Jameson looked a bit shocked at the fact that he’d removed a part of the uniform, even if he couldn’t see his eyes, but Jessica didn’t seem to have much of a reaction. Then again, she’d seen his face.

The thought was momentarily more terrifying than he was prepared for, and he found his fingers fisting.

The Klan wasn’t something he cared about. Pete knew that he would be able to destroy anyone that became a direct threat to him, and Pete had technically not removed his mask in the year he’d been alone. There was nothing and no one that would connect him to the dead kid buried in a grave, not among the Klan. Jessica, though.

Jessica was _passing_, there was a possibility…

And then he pushed the thought away. If she really would have been aware of who Pete had been before, she wouldn’t have asked for his real name. She had no idea, and the thought calmed him.

“_And_ the voice,” Jameson frowned.

“He already did something with his voice,” Jessica returned, “show him.”

“It’s not that exciting, really,” Pete returned in the voice he was using for Mark Williams, immediately causing Jameson to cuss repeatedly. The wash of amusement he felt was so strong he not only recognized it as amusement, it brought a grin to his face. “Apparently I use the same voice when I’m trying to calm down someone who’s upset. I…don’t think I can change it, though,” Pete frowned. “I’m not sure whether I should just talk to a victim normally, or just trust that I’ll never talk to Klan like that because I’m not going to save them.”

“You help a lot of faces, from what I remember,” Jameson frowned.

“A lot of _poor_ faces,” Pete returned with a frown, “Klan ain’t.”

“That’s a point,” Jameson nodded. “But what are you hoping to gain here, what’s your _goal_.”

“I want to help Spider spy,” Jessica returned immediately, “I was thinking since Mark Williams is a known widow who’s recently lost his wife, if I lost my lover…”

“You find comfort in each other,” Jameson agreed. “It’s a solid plan. You said you sent the house up in flames?”

“Yes,” Jessica nodded. “I’m often taking long walks at night, I’m known for them, so if I come back later…”

“I see,” Jameson frowned, “Alright, this is…” he stroked a thumb over his chin. “This is doable. Are you both _willing_ to play this role?”

“I have no qualms,” Jessica returned with a shrug. “It’s of my own choosing and I trust that he’d respect me.”

Pete hesitated, “I’m fine with it,” he finally said. “She’s been there longer, and she doesn’t have to work as hard to build-up a reputation. I’m working from the ground up, and if she’s willing…”

“Alright,” Jameson agreed. “You have a good base already, a combined tragedy that leads to something like this kind of coming together will be something that people will latch onto and see as good. You cannot be seen together at the fire, though, unless…did he lose control when you killed him?”

“I _made_ him relinquish control,” Pete answered.

“Then everyone will apparently remember what he’s been up to?” Jameson frowned.

“Yes, I do think so,” Jessica returned with a sharp nod. “I don’t think there will be enough evidence to suspect me…we took him to the kitchen in front of the stove. There was a gas leak, he was attempting to cook something, or he lit a cigarette…_boom_.”

“That’s solid,” Jameson stood up, pacing. “That’s solid. Do you have any reason why they won’t trust you in their ranks?”

“I’m passing,” Jessica said after a moment.

Jameson stared at her, before leaning forward. “How?”

“My grandfather was negro.”

“That’s close,” Jameson said, his mouth in a thin line. “That’s _close_, there’s…do you have a reason to suspect they’d look you up?”

“I’ve been there for six months,” Jessica frowned, “I…” she hesitated. “I don’t know whether or not they would find my past behavior reason to look me up or not. I don’t _think_ so. If they all come to the realization that they were being controlled, then I see no reason why they would look into me further. Generally speaking, if the Klan doesn’t like it, they ignore it. They put it behind them, and they move on. I don’t think they would open up more of the box that contains my past, because I think the realization of how much they’d been used would be so abhorrent to them they wouldn’t be able to consider it.”

Jameson nodded slowly, “Given your experience, what I know about the Klan, and how cults tend to circle, that doesn’t surprise me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, lowering his head. “Okay,” Jameson said, looking up at the two of them. “There’s an obvious connection to loss and dating quickly, and I can see your shared experiences driving you together. Is there a way the two of you can meet at the fire then? Were you seen leaving by the Klan?” Jameson asked, looking to Pete.

“Yes,” Pete nodded, “I told my contact that I’d take a taxi, and I followed Jessica and Killgrave on foot. And then killed him.”

Jameson smirked. “Then there’s a potential for the two of you to have met on your walk?” Jameson asked, looking to Jessica. “You were wandering, and you stumbled upon Spider…?”

“And we walked together,” Jessica said, her expression brightening, “he escorted me home because he’s a gentleman, and I find the house on fire. Or the ruins. How fast would it burn?”

“It’s cold, it’s winter, but it is a gas fire,” Pete frowned. “It might be ash by this point.”

“Head back,” Jameson frowned, “escort her to the house, if they ask _you_ why you didn’t head home, what’s your reasoning?”

Pete hesitated a moment, “the police or the Klan?”

“Police first,” Jameson frowned.

“Has anyone come looking for you after they saw the way he treated you?” Pete asked immediately, frowning at her.

“Yes,” Jessica responded with a nod, “at first. Killgrave realized what to say in order to stop that, however.”

“Would it be possible to state that I was concerned for her safety, and followed them? I left them alone, but when I saw Jessica walking on her own, I approached, in order to talk to her and make sure she really _was_ okay.”

Jameson frowned, looking down. “Given the way you set up his death, the fact that he might not have the remains left to study, and the fact that people have looked after her before…yes, I do think that it would work.”

“Okay,” Pete agreed finally, standing up. “I think I might be able to pass that on to the Klan as well.”

“I agree,” Jameson said, standing. “But I have one last question,” Jameson frowned to Jessica then.

“Yes?”

“Do you think you can mourn?”

Jessica smiled, the look brittle and sharp, “I can definitely mourn.”

Jameson nodded. “Alright, get going. If I’m right…I should be getting a call…”

The phone rang then, and Pete blinked, turning to look at it as Jameson walked forward and picked it up. There was a pause as he listened, and Pete recognized that the voice on the other end was reporting about an explosion, a gas fire that was taking place nearby. Jameson called for him to take photos, ordered him to get a story, and then hung up. “I have people all over this city,” he said simply with a frown. “They report to me when they can.”

“That’s incredible…” Jessica whispered.

“Every Spider needs a web,” Jameson said, giving Pete a nod that he wasn’t expecting, even as he felt a burst of warmth rise up in his chest.

Jessica smiled, “True,” she agreed, and looked to Pete. “Carry me back?”

“Yes,” Pete said.

“You can keep the blindfold off,” Jameson said with a frown. “My name is John Jonah Jameson.”

“You’re the owner of the _Daily Bugle_,” Jessica whispered, staring at him with wide eyes. “I always read your paper, but I never knew your face. You run a tight ship, Jameson, I could always count on your paper for the facts.”

Jameson blinked, before he beamed at her. “We live to serve,” he said with a nod, and then looked to Spider, “he’ll tell you what my role is in this operation, but from my mouth directly: if there is something you need to talk about that happens to you while spying, or just to talk in general, my door is _always_ open. Come and talk to me any time after seven in the evening and we’ll work it out together.”

Jessica stared at him in surprise, before smiling at him, and giving a little nod, “I will, thank you.” She looked to Pete then. “I’m ready to swing, Spider.”

Pete nodded, and walked to her, swinging her up on his back. Jameson opened the window and Pete dove out of it, catching himself with a web and swinging, the web containing his costume held by Jessica. He took her to a park near the fire and instructed her to look away, with a plea, and quickly changed. When he was finally dressed as Mark Williams again, he balled up his uniform and hid it, knowing he’d have to come back tomorrow to get it, before coming back and offering her his arm. “Shall we walk?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jessica smiled, and took his arm.

They walked to the site of the burning, to the sight of a photographer taking pictures, and a few coppers and firemen standing ready. The house was still burning, the foundations crumbling. Jessica looked to him, gave him a slight wink, and then let out a wail that shook _him_ to the core, and he knew that in this case, it was acting.

Though, as Jessica fell to her knees, as she screamed, and buried her face in her hands, Pete had to wonder if she was mourning the life that she could have had if Killgrave hadn’t found her, and he found his hand on her back, bowing down next to her, and as she clung to him and he to her, as the coppers ran up towards them, as the firemen began to circle…

He thought they might be able to do this.

* * *

Pete and Jessica had lied their way through interrogation after interrogation, but it was obvious from the onset that they weren’t truly considering them for suspects. Jessica’s screaming, her very visible mourning was enough for them to have cut her off, and with Pete’s position next to her, they were all too ready to believe they had nothing to do with what had happened to Killgrave. Jessica had denied having any living relatives that would, or even could take care of her, and claimed Pete as a male friend that she was close enough to that she trusted him to take care of her.

They’d believed her and entrusted her into Pete’s care, particularly after he mentioned being a recent widow whose wife had died in tragic circumstances, which they had record of once he gave his name. He also assured them that he had the means to take care of her when they got there, that she would not be forced to sleep in the same clothes of this tragedy.

He didn’t know exactly what Stark had done to get records in place, but they believed without question.

Apparently, the coppers bought the idea that she would need someone who understood what she was going through, and so they called them a taxi and sent them on their way, with a warning that they would be following up with them later after they did more questioning, which Pete had expected – nosy fucks. Jessica clung to him in the taxi, and he held her gently, the taxi driver aware enough of what was happening to be very somber, and give them a quiet charge to stay safe, and he was sorry.

The coppers had already paid him, but Jessica gave him a tip.

Pete took her into the house, looking to where he could sense the cameras, and Jessica sniffed, wiped her eyes once, and looked to him with a grin. “I think that went rather well.”

Pete nodded his head to her and positioned them in the living room carefully. “It’s definitely started something.” Pete had been careful to never let his face get fully photographed by the man who was taking pictures, wrapped up as he was in scarf and hat, which he didn’t remove. He knew that he would be referred to as ‘a male friend,’ as well, which meant his anonymity was still intact. But he also knew that Stark would be aware that he had brought a woman home with him.

This was something that had to be handled delicately.

“I’ll give you the bedroom,” Pete said finally. “We’ll discuss what we’re going to do in the morning. Do you think you can sleep?” Jessica hesitated, looking at him, and then looking to the dark of the stairwell. Pete didn’t know what she was thinking, not specifically, but he could imagine the idea of being alone in a strange house she had never been in after having gone through what she had probably didn’t seem appealing. Pete hesitated, and finally, with a sigh, “If you want, I’ll come with you.”

“Please,” Jessica said, looking to him with her wide eyes, “stay with me.”

“I will,” Pete agreed with a nod. Pete had a room that was supposedly devoted to his dead wife in his house should someone look around for proof of this wife. In it was women’s clothing that had been carefully selected and tailored by Schmidt, though perhaps his sister had done the actual choosing. Pete allowed her to grab what she needed,before escorting her back to his bedroom, feeling the uncomfortable buzz of being watched burning on the back of his neck. “The house is fully bugged,” Pete said once he had got inside and closed the door, turning to look at her. “The only place that hasn’t been is this room and the bathroom attached. I will check the other bathrooms throughout the house tomorrow, but I want you to know that this is your only area that you can change without being observed in some way, I think. Would you like the bathroom first? You can take a shower.”

Jessica hesitated, staring at him. “You guys really bugged the entirety of the house?”

“I have…Klan visitors,” Pete frowned. “Sylvester Wright is a common sight here, and it’s best to have our conversations listened to.”

“Well it’s good that they give you the privacy of the bedroom at least,” Jessica said.

“…They didn’t. Not at first.”

“What kind of sick voyeurs are you dealing with, Spider?” Jessica hissed.

“Just the one,” Pete looked away, “but my other allies got him to stop. There’s four of us, not including Jameson. Jameson…Jameson is _my_ ally, and my contact. I’m…very lucky to have him.”

“I would agree,” Jessica said with a nod, “he seems like a wonderful man to know. I’ll take the shower, yes,” she said finally.

“Take as much time as you want,” Pete said immediately, “I…know what it’s like to need to wash off more than the grime you’re covered in.”

Jessica smiled at him, her eyes grateful. “Thank you,” she said. “You…it’s funny, I’ve just met you today and you already gave me the best gift anyone has ever given me. You gave me my freedom.”

Pete gave her a nod and walked over to the other side of the room, and after a moment of hesitation, began spinning a web. Pete would give her the bed, which meant he needed a place to sleep. Jessica came out of the bathroom later wearing a nightgown that fell to the floor, and she started at the sight of the large web. Pete immediately climbed out of it, “if it bothers you, I shall get rid of it,” he said.

“No!” Jessica denied, shaking her head, “I’m…I’m sorry, I just…it surprised me. It’s a very…large web.”

“Large Spider,” Pete returned easily with a slight shrug, and she gave a bit of a smirk.

“Okay,” she sighed, looking to the bed. “I suppose I’m taking this, then?”

“That was my idea,” Pete nodded.

“Thank you.”

“If you’d prefer, I could be your monster under the bed,” Pete said after a beat. “I bet I’d scare away most things.”

Jessica grinned at him, “Spider needs a web.”

Pete gave a nod and moved to the bathroom, taking his own change of clothes. He showered and cleaned himself of the smell of smoke from the burning building, of the sight of Killgrave and what he did, and changed into his pajamas before coming out. It was still so weird walking out without a covering for his face when he knew that someone was there, but Jessica had already seen him. She was waiting when he came out, sitting on the bed. Pete hesitated for a moment, before moving to his web, climbing up into it, hoping that seeing him getting ready for bed would give her the strength to lay down herself.

Jessica watched him for a moment, before frowning. “No blankets, Spider?”

“I’m fine,” Pete denied, shaking his head. Jessica made a sound, raising an eyebrow at him, before taking off the extra blanket at the foot of the bed and bringing it over to him. Pete hesitated, before finally reaching out and taking it, bringing it into his web and pulling it over him.

“We look after _each other_,” she said firmly. “Thank you for watching my back.”

“I’ll know,” he said. “If anything enters this room, I’ll know. I have a sense. It’s how I know when I’m being watched, how I knew everything was bugged. You’re _safe with me_.”

“I know,” Jessica nodded. “I trust you.”

With that, she walked back to the bed, climbing into it, and pulled the blankets close, leaving Pete momentarily lost for words. Before he could think of a way to respond, he realized that Jessica was fast asleep. Pete swallowed tightly and lay down, curling up within the blanket and slowly falling to sleep.

There would be more lies and explanations to be cooked up tomorrow, but he thought that it would be doable.

Pete woke up twice, once with his own nightmares and once to Jessica’s. The disgust he felt at the former was nearly debilitating, he hadn’t been bothered for so long, why _now_?

He had lain there covered in sweat and breathing deep after waking up from his own nightmare, doing his best to keep from waking the woman who was with him. When his heart was no longer trying to bust its way from his chest, he curled up again, slowly falling asleep. Jessica woke later, trembling and weeping, and Pete crawled over to be closer, waiting on the wall above her. She took his hand when he offered it, breathing as deep as she could, doing her best to calm down, and finally let go, giving him a nod and falling back to sleep herself.

The rest of the night went undisturbed, and he took her to select the clothes that she needed in the morning before taking her back to the bedroom. He changed while she was in the bathroom changing herself, able to get everything back in place before she opened the door a few minutes later. She blinked when she realized that his scarf was in place. 

“They haven’t seen my face yet,” Pete explained softly, “not yet.”

“You don’t trust them,” Jessica said softly, her head tilting back, and there was the start of something dark in her eyes.

Pete shook his head, “_They_ don’t trust me. Though perhaps that’s changing…”

“They think you’re a _regular_ Changed,” she said finally.

“Yes.”

“They put you in direct danger with no concern for your safety.”

“Why would they care?” he asked, his head tilting. “I’m hardly human.”

Jessica frowned at him deeply. “I see.” Jessica hesitated, “Tell me, Spider…do I have permission to use your first name in character?”

Pete frowned for a moment, “If I’m to call you Jessica it might be best. Though should we keep it more formal for the moment?”

“I just lost my lover,” Jessica smirked at him, “I cried in your arms, and you took me to your home. _Should_ it be more formal?”

Pete smirked back at her, “Point.”

“Alright, are we making breakfast first, or are we talking to the Klan?

“Breakfast,” Pete said after a beat. “You need it, and I definitely do. My metabolism is…advanced.”

“That makes sense,” she said, and her expression was pinched. “Where do I meet you for the meeting with the others?”

“I’ll talk to someone, set it up.”

“Very well,” Jessica nodded, “I’ll start with breakfast, do what you have to.”

“Thank you.”

Pete followed her out before immediately going to the phone that would connect him to Tony Stark. It began ringing before he even got there and he pushed it open, picking it up.

“Call a meeting with the others tonight,” he said before Stark could say a word. “Wild Jack’s in Harlem, the witching hour. You know it, don’t you?”

“_I do_,” Stark agreed. “_Will they let me in_?”

“They’ll have to,” Pete said simply.

“_Will they let _her_ in_?”

“They will.”

Stark gave a brief sound, “_It’ll be done, Spider. I’m looking forward to the story behind this one. I saw the Bugle this morning. I’m guessing there’s a lot going on_.”

“There is,” Pete agreed.

“_See you then_,” Stark hummed, and hung up.

It had been…a surprisingly civil conversation for once. Pete wondered if it was because Stark thought he could destabilize his position due to Jessica.

He had another thing coming.

Pete entered the kitchen to find that Jessica had cracked a good half-dozen eggs into a pan, adding cheese and tomatoes to it. Pete walked over and brought two plates over, starting the coffee maker easily. Pete hoped that Wright wouldn’t appear again, and his gaze kept flashing to the road, a feeling of unease deep in his chest.

“This enough eggs, Spider, or do we need more?”

“It should be fine,” Pete shook his head, “thank you.”

“No trouble,” she smiled at him, and Pete took the time to wash the knife and the board she had used to cut the tomato on. There was an odd sort of domesticity to everything, and Pete felt that weird sort of pang deep in his chest at the realization…

This wouldn’t ever be something he could have.

Pete started the coffee brewing, adding a good amount of beans and getting cups as Jessica flipped what Pete recognized as an omelet. He was momentarily grateful that there wasn’t any pork in the house. Jessica didn’t know and there was a possibility that she might have…

Regardless, she brought the pan over as it was fully cooked, smiling and putting it on the towel Pete had left out for her.

“How nice, Spider,” she smiled, “you sure you weren’t actually married before?”

“Pretty positive,” Pete returned with a nod. Jessica laughed. She sighed as she sat down, taking how much she needed before shoving the pan over to Pete who decided plates were for patsies and just stabbed at it with his fork.

“You’re right,” she said, “if you were you wouldn’t have helped clean.”

Pete nearly choked on the bite of omelet he had taken, and Jessica laughed aloud. “Excuse me!” he managed, coughing, and Jessica laughed harder, pushing his cup of coffee towards him, Pete taking a drink of it, trying to wash it down. “I like to think I’m at least _marginally_ well raised.”

“Marginally,” she smirked. Pete gave a shrug. “Do we go directly to the Klan after this?”

“Yes,” he agreed with a nod. “We’ll spell out what happened together, do you know of someone who would be best to report to?”

Jessica hesitated, frowning, “They’re all shit in their own way,” she said finally, leaning back and Pete was mildly surprised at the curse, before deciding it was correct enough. “The worst, though, are those fuckers Johnson and Worthington. We have to avoid them at all costs.”

Pete felt a rush of something deep in his chest, his head ducking.

“Spider…” she said softly, her eyes wide, “whose attention did you get?”

“Johnson,” he said after a beat. “I have…Friday, I’m meeting him for dinner tomorrow.”

Jessica’s expression had tensed, her eyes widening as she reached out and took his hand very suddenly. “Nothing he does to you changes anything,” she whispered as quietly and as harshly as she could manage.

Pete spread his other hand on the table, bowing low over it, feeling as she squeezed, his heart beating a mile a minute into his ribs. Why was this his luck, why was this what always happened to him, why was this the kind of person he wound up attracting, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…

He took a deep breath finally, straightening back up and letting go of her hand, putting it on the table as well. “Come on,” he said finally. “We have work to do.”

“But you…you didn’t finish…”

“I will later,” Pete said. “You’re likely going to be taken into someone else’s care. I can’t imagine them letting you stay with a male you just met, though perhaps we could see. Do you know Wild Jack’s in Harlem?”

“I do,” Jessica agreed immediately.

“The witching hour, you’ll meet the rest there.”

“I’ll be there,” Jessica nodded stiffly, taking a step towards him. “Spider,” she said softly. “You’re not alone, okay? Remember that. _You’re not alone_.”

He gave a brief nod, and the two of them left the house.

There was more work to be done.

* * *

They wandered into what felt more like a bustling hive than it had ever been, the Klan circling together and hissing frantically among themselves. When they saw Jessica and who they knew as Williams enter in together, they immediately came forward. There were so many questions, but Jessica kept her chin up, her eyes wet with tears, her jaw trembling, and Pete had his arm around her the entire time. “Please, please, someone to report to,” he said. “There’s so much…”

The Klan parted for him to meet with a Cyclops, and they were taken together to be talked to. The _Daily Bugle_ was spread across the desk, showing the remains of Killgrave’s burning house, Jessica’s pale and screaming face, the tears falling as she held onto Pete, who was nearly unrecognizable, buried in the scarf and the hat, partially covered by her hair as he pulled her close to him to let her scream. Pete felt a brief burst of admiration for the photographer.

That was an _amazing_ shot.

“What happened?” the Cyclops asked, looking to them both. “The paper said it was a gas leak, but as it’s the _Bugle_ I can never be sure whether or not it speaks truth.”

Pete felt a momentary pang of hostility. How _dare_ he.

“It’s true,” Jessica managed, and her voice was so soft, so hushed, her lips trembling with the words. “I was…I took a walk after the party, after we got home…Mark…he approached me, and I… We talked. He was concerned for my welfare…apparently the party…” She took a breath, “Zebediah was always so _intense_ and…every so often…”

“Yes,” the Cyclops responded, nodding. “Yes, he was…” he looked away, pacing. “Do you know how it could have occurred? Was there any evidence left? Was it…was it _tampering_?”

Jessica’s expression crumpled as she put her hands over her face, and immediately began weeping. The Cyclops was obviously not sure how to handle this, and Pete immediately wrapped his arms around her, giving him a dark look. The Cyclops straightened, clearing his throat, “Jones,” he said finally, “Jones, I’m sorry. I… Please, please, take a moment, I’ll talk to Williams, take as long as you need.”

Jessica left, winking at Pete when her back was turned to the man, and Pete turned to the Cyclops.

“Was there any evidence of tampering?” he asked.

“No,” Pete returned, “at least not that the police could find at the time. We…Jessica was understandably upset…” his mouth twisted slightly.

There was a long pause, the silence thoughtful.

“You didn’t spend any time around Killgrave, did you?” the Cyclops asked.

“No,” Pete agreed. “The first time I saw him was at that party and he was…overwhelming. But I didn’t spend a long time around him. Just long enough to know that he seemed…_strange_. I worried for Jessica, and so I followed them. I wanted to talk to her alone, you see…make sure that things…were okay.”

“I understand,” the Cyclops sighed, taking his hood off and running his hands over his bald head. “I do, indeed.” He looked up at Pete with crystal-colored eyes, a thin frown on equally thin lips. “I don’t blame you for it. The man was…definitely overwhelming. Likable, perhaps, but…overwhelming. In will and deed…” He hesitated. “Jones _mourned_ him, though?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yes,” Pete agreed with a nod. “Deeply. I…when I talked to her about my own wife’s fate…she… She was so distraught I didn’t want to leave her alone. I feared what she would do, so I took her with me.”

“She must have loved him dearly,” the man sighed, once again passing his hand over his head. “Tell me, Williams, do you think she had anything to do with his death? Did _you_?”

“No,” Pete said. “It seems…his death was just…an accident. Some…odd twist of fate.”

He lowered his head and nodded. “Very well. Very well. It’s funny how that works. Perhaps it was a gift from God.”

Pete wanted to sneer, “Perhaps.”

“Do you know if she has any friends or relatives that would take care of her?”

“I brought her here because I had a feeling that she would be familiar with some of the wives of other Klan members. I was hoping that they would be able to help her.”

“Yes, I can see the logic in that.” He looked up, obviously thinking. “We’ll see that she’s taken care of. She obviously has gotten quite close to you, and you to her. I don’t think I’ve heard of you giving your first name to another.”

“She…” Pete hesitated, trying to think of what to say, of what would work… “She understands,” Pete finally said, and his voice was so quiet, his expression so pinched. The man hesitated, before nodding, putting a hand on his shoulder, and squeezing.

“Yes,” he said finally, “I could see why she would.” There was a pause, before the Cyclops gestured for him to leave. “Bring Jones back, will you? I wish to talk to her alone.”

“Very well,” Pete left, nodding to Jessica, who smiled at him in passing before walking back into the room. Pete could hear their conversation, the way the man questioned her, his quiet apologies, and finally, Jessica returned.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the man said softly, bowing his head to her. “It was…truly a shock for us all.”

They agreed and made their way out. As they walked, though, Jessica found herself surrounded by some of the wives, who immediately began talking to her. They noticed Pete, then, turning to look from Jessica to him. “Mark helped me,” she said simply, and Pete watched as the women there shifted their attitude completely, the way they looked at him much softer and much more welcoming. “He was the one who found…”

“I’m so sorry, Jessica, I’m so sorry,” another woman said, taking Jessica’s hands in her own and squeezing. “What an agony to endure,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m glad that you were there,” one of the women said, coming up to Pete, her eyes gentle, and full of tears. “Thank you for taking care of her. We’ll be sure to make certain that she is properly cared for. When we figure out who she will stay with we will make sure the address is given to you, should you like to visit.”

“Thank you,” Pete said, “I…I think I might.”

She smiled at him, even as her eyes watered, clasping his hands in hers and squeezing, before turning back to Jessica, and taking her under her arm, ushering her off.

Wright approached then with his eyes so wide, flicking between the retreating backs of the women to Pete. “Williams, are you alright? Was that Jessica? Were you the one who found her?”

“Yes,” Pete returned immediately, “I followed…after the party I couldn’t get the thought of what had happened out of my mind. I had to make sure that she was actually alright, and I…I’m sorry I didn’t come with you, truly I am, but I had this…feeling.”

“No, no, don’t…Williams, please don’t apologize. I…” he took a breath, wiping his forehead of sweat. “I’m glad you were there for her when she needed you. What an awful situation…” Wright sat down. “My wife…she looked at me suddenly in the middle of the night, and…her expression, I shall never forget…” He covered his face with his hands, “I feared deeply that Jessica…that she was in a situation that she wouldn’t have wanted, and…I’m glad that you were there, and that she apparently loved him enough to mourn.”

Pete blinked, suddenly realizing not only what Wright was implying, but that the other man was genuine.

“Please, don’t take me wrong,” Wright said, reaching out, “I am sorry that she suffers, but the idea…the possibility that…” He looked away. “The thought is too cruel to bear.”

Pete sat down next to him. “I agree,” he said simply, softly. “I was afraid, at first…but…it is not the case.”

“I’m glad,” Wright sighed, rubbing his face, “I’m glad. What a tragedy, that a man cannot be fully mourned by what should have been his peers for the simple fact that…” he looked away. “Well, either way I’m glad you were there. Thank you for taking care of her.”

“Of course,” Pete returned softly.

“Such terrible things,” he sighed. Wright stood up finally, and Pete did as well. “It turns out that we had nothing to burn after all. I don’t think it’ll be rescheduled for a while. The Klan’s shaken up.” He shook his head. “What a tragedy.”

“Indeed,” Pete agreed with a short nod, and Wright sighed, before he turned to face him and gave him an almost sad smile, clasping his hand.

“Either way, it was good to see you, I’m very glad that you seem to be healing well.”

“Same,” Pete agreed with a nod. “I’ll see you, Wright. I have some things to do yet.”

“Good luck, Williams, I’ll see you soon.”

“Thank you.”

With that, Pete left. Pete was going to return to the park. He had his uniform to pick up, and then he planned on patrolling for a bit until the meeting.

He had some energy to burn.

* * *

Pete wore his uniform back, hiding the costume of Mark Williams in the house, working shadow to shadow. The coldness of the uniform had long ago been warmed by his constant motion, though at first it had been so cold it was almost stiff.

Pete swung through the streets, a constant threat, a presence, a warning.

He tore through the districts with the most chance for Nazi or Klan activity, and then finally made his way to the Hoovervilles that he had frequented more, swinging low over the ones that he tended to see as more under his charge. He hadn’t been through in a while, and Pete wasn’t surprised to see the children that ran out, the children like he had been, staring up at him, waving, calling out.

The ones in the Hoovervilles had a particular kind of relationship with him, and the parents that came out to see what the commotion was, the way they brought their children close, but ultimately still stared at him as he went past felt a bit like the best representation of that. There was a wariness there that they couldn’t shake, but at the time they still recognized him as the one they could scream to for help.

But always from a distance.

Pete made his way past, swinging higher, and then moving back into the city. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

It was as Pete was swinging that he found himself remembering that the worst part of dealing with a crisis was that sometimes it didn’t feel like it.

New York was almost quiet when he passed over it, which happened on very rare days. New York to him felt a bit like a boiling pot, every so often the temperature got turned to a low simmer, but there was always the potential of an explosion.

The _potential_.

Pete swung over buildings, listened to the voices that called out, the desperation…and in periodic moments, the singing.

Pete had always found it amazing, the way that the city could cling so tightly to both death and warmth. Even in the places of the most desperation, the Hoovervilles and the Slums, every so often a voice would take up a song, and another would follow. Defiance in the face of certain devastation. When Pete had been young that voice had been his mother.

Now…Pete no longer knew who the voices belonged to, and there was always pain in that truth.

Pete dropped to stand on the edge of a building, perching there for a moment, feeling the wind rise, snapping his coat back. Pete hated this inactivity. Hated the nails on the chalkboard of his soul kind of feeling that it brought to him. He knew that something was coming, he could _feel_ it. It wasn’t the same kind of awful oppression that another Changed coming would cause, but it was still there, and it weighed heavily on him.

The thing about it was, Pete couldn’t tell if it was dread at the idea of meeting Cage, Murdock, and Stark in person, or if it was the horror of tomorrow weighing on him.

Pete heard something finally that gave him a momentary start, a scream, and swung towards it.

This, at least, he could do something about.

* * *

What had felt like a lull had broken in the most violent way possible, more and more cries rising as the hour grew late and the sun dropped behind the horizon.

The moon was a fat disk in the sky, climbing further and further towards the witching hour he needed to meet the others at. And as the hour neared Pete found himself getting sloppier and sloppier. 

What had started as something simple had begun to get more complicated as Pete’s focus drifted, as the burning in his chest tightened.

It was a simple situation. A man with a knife, a woman with a purse, something Pete had handled time and again, but Pete was getting to the point where he was almost jittery, and he only realized he hadn’t eaten when his attempt to web the other led to a sharp pain in his wrist. And then a sharp pain in his back as that knife dug into him.

Pete was tired of being stabbed in the back.

He broke the man’s nose easily, sending him stumbling back. He heard the woman screaming, even as she finally ran, and Pete broke the man’s arm and flipped him over, smashing him into the ground.

Pete had a moment where he stumbled to his knees, breathing heavily, feeling the warmth spreading from his back, dripping to the ground, and after a moment reached back. He couldn’t touch it, he couldn’t pull it out…he… Fuck, he was an _idiot_.

“Are…” he heard, and his head snapped over to the woman standing there, the one who had backed up to the complete other side of the alley but hadn’t run, _she hadn’t run_. “I…I’m sorry, are you…do you need help?”

Pete stared at her for a moment and tilted slightly. “Can you pull it out?”

“I…” she hesitated, “_yes_…”

Pete braced himself on the concrete, making sure his hands were clearly visible, showing that he wasn’t going to hurt her. She walked towards him, her body trembling slightly, before finally, finally, she reached him. She smelled like fear and the sickly-sweet smell of too much perfume, her clothing the rich elegance of a middle-class white woman.

Pete felt her hand as it braced against his back, and then slowly, carefully, the other hand grasped the hilt. “I need you to guide me to where the wound is after you pulled it out,” he said. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling, but sure.

“Pull.”

She did, the feeling of it sliding out of muscle and skin, pulling through flesh causing him to let out a soft sound that he tried to bite back. He felt her hands there suddenly, putting pressure on the wound, giving a soft cry at the sudden rush of blood.

“Oh God, I’m _sorry_,” she said, her voice trembling.

“You did what I needed,” Pete said, reaching back and shifting his clothes off of his shoulders, “I’m sorry, I just…need to get…”

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine…” she whispered, “oh God…_it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine_…”

Pete found where her hand was, feeling the pressure, and as soon as his layers were peeled far enough away he had a steady aim to it he bent his arm over his back, “can you…put pressure…aim my wrist down.”

“Okay,” she said, “okay, okay…” he felt as she pulled and pushed, letting his arm be as loose as he possibly could. A Spider was usually significantly more flexible than a regular human, and so he was able to go quite far, and when she finally let out a sob and said, “now, now!”

Pete forced the webbing out, forced it even though he felt it try and tear its way out of his wrist, the painful gummed-up feeling of empty reserves being scraped for the last drop.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she said, and let go of him, stumbling back, sobbing. Pete kneeled there for a moment, breathing heavily, feeling the way the flow had stopped, his arms braced on the ground, before looking to her.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Thank you…for…for helping me…”

“You saved my life,” she returned, water leaking from her eyes, hands covered in his blood held up to her face, clasped under her chin. “You saved my life, how…how could I let you lose yours?” 

Pete hesitated, forcing himself upright and beginning to pull his layers back into place, “You’d be surprised at the number that wouldn’t share your opinion,” he said softly. “So…thank you.”

“You…” she hesitated. “You’re welcome,” she finally managed with a nod. “You…you’re going to heal now, yes? You…you’re getting off the street?”

“Yes,” Pete agreed, knowing that now that he didn’t have his webbing, he absolutely had to move towards Harlem now and on foot. It would take longer, but he would get there in time.

He had to.

But before he did, Pete reached down, picking up the knife that was covered in his blood and held it, giving a soft sound, and finally slid it into the sheath he kept for just such a purpose. He’d clean it later. Now he needed to move.

Pete made it to Wild Jack’s easily, seeing a shadowy figure on the roof curled into the corner, watching the skies…

Watching for him.

Pete landed next to her, and Jessica gave a soft sound of surprise. “You’re here,” she said, and there was relief in her voice. “It’s good to see you, I started to get… Well, never mind, it’s good that you’re here. I…didn’t think that it would be good if I went in on my own.”

“You’re right,” Pete agreed with a nod, “I have to introduce you. Come in however you choose but give me a moment to talk to them without you.”

“I will,” Jessica agreed with a nod. “The Klan have me staying with the Davidsons,” she said, “I’ll give you the address later.”

“Thank you,” Pete said, and opened the window of the skylight easily, before dropping down into the midst of the throng that was waiting for him, landing atop the heavyset mahogany table easily. There was no creaking of wood, no buckling, even the drinks on the edge of the table remaining stable. The whole of them took a step back, letting out a surprised sound as they took him in.

Stark – disguised, but still present, Murdock, Cage, and a few wildcards that Pete had expected. Wild Jack’s was the main club in Harlem, and they were known for their exclusionist policies, even more than the one that Pete had frequented with Robbie. They would have left their bouncers and who looked like the owner there.

They had to deal with _him_. 

“Spider,” Stark said, the word somehow chockfull of malice. Pete turned his attention to him, lowering himself slightly, still looming over the other man.

“Me,” Pete returned softly.

“What’s the idea, Spider,” Cage said suddenly, taking a step towards him. “We get rid of the cameras, so you immediately bring a _dame_ home with you?”

Pete laughed, a surprised, exhausted sound that ripped from his soul as he felt the blood start to trickle out from around the webbing. What an absolutely absurd accusation to make. What a _stupid_ idea.

“You’re going to _laugh_ at this? We trusted you, we let you in, and…now the dame might be some fucking Klan whore?” Daredevil asked, throwing _the Bugle_ before him. “This is _bullshit_, Spider, and you know it. We gave you the freedom, so you immediately abuse it. What kind of bullshit reasoning…?”

“The dame’s _name_ is Jessica Jones.”

“Jessica?” one of the bouncers asked, a big man, tall and broad-shouldered and… oh, oh that was an expression. His ashen face was creased with something like hope, something like despair, and he looked to the paper again, his eyes narrowed, taking in the woman that was screaming, the horror in her face, in her eyes. “You found _Jessica_?”

“I did.”

“No… No,” the man said, shaking his head, swallowing, “she…she’s my cousin, there’s _no way_ that’s her, I’d have…I’d have _recognized_ her… We were always careful because she was Passing, but…” He picked up the newspaper, staring at her face, staring at her, and then softly, “Oh _God_, Jessica…”

The men had looked to the bouncer, their expressions clouded, confused, and finally, softly, “Spider. What _happened_,” he asked. “What happened to my cousin?”

“Have you heard of a man named Killgrave?”

“Killgrave,” Daredevil hissed.

“You have,” Pete said softly, “So you know that he has the ability to control all people? To bring them under his will?”

“You’re _shitting_ me,” Cage spat. “You’re going to tell me that some Klan fucker had the ability to make everyone do what he wants, and he didn’t decide to have all Negroes off themselves? To not rise through the ranks?”

“Why would he? He was content with where he was.” Pete hesitated. “Before he died, of course.”

“This is bullshit,” Stark hissed. “You found a woman that apparently defected over to the Klan, you bring her home, you have your merry way with her, and then you decide to bullshit the rest of us by coming up with an excuse as to why the fuck she’d even be anywhere near you, and you spout it out like you expect for us to buy it. And even if you are right in that this…_Killgrave_ had this level of control, you brought her directly into the fucking middle of the operation without bringing her back to Harlem where she’d be taken care of. I’m sure this man would have loved to have seen his cousin, why didn’t you bring her to him? This is just another moment when your reckless impulsivity endangered all of us, and…”

“Shut your _fucking_ mouth, before I shut it for you.”

Pete wasn’t expecting that voice, nor was he expecting to look up and see Jessica there, silhouetted in the moonlight in the skylight, before she dropped down, landing next to Pete.

“Jessica,” her cousin whispered.

“Henry,” Jessica returned softly, and then turned to look to Stark, her eyes flashing death.

“Spider…what did you _do_?” Daredevil whispered, taking a few steps back.

“He did what I asked him to,” Jessica said, finding him with her eyes. “He took me with him because I asked,” she took a step forward, “he let me spy because I asked, and he brought me here because I asked. I was with the Klan for six months.”

Henry let out a mournful sound that she didn’t even glance at, her eyes instead locked on Stark.

“I was used and abused and twisted by a man that could command _legions_ with his voice but was too bored and too broken to do it.” Jessica stared at him with those eyes, and Stark took a step back. “The Spider treated me with respect, gave me the bed, and kept away from me. Your accusations of my whorish behavior are simply reflections, I think, of your own experience with dames and what you’d do with them.” Jessica looked at the rest of them then, and Pete was surprised at the presence she commanded, the simple raw anger that she was viewing them with.

“You accuse the one who saved me and treated me with respect of being the same as the one he took me from, and _I won’t have it_. I came here because I wanted to spy for you. I have six months of experience with the Klan, I know who they are, who they talk to, and what they do. I came because I thought you believed in utilizing _all of your assets_ with the respect they deserved and the ability to treat them with dignity and listen to their reports. I see now that you don’t, and so I tell you now that I will spy on the Klan, but I won’t report to _you_. I report to _him_, and he can give you my messages, because frankly, I see no reason to speak to any of you again.”

Jessica took the shot of liquor from before Stark, picking it up and toasting him with it, “Call me a whore, one more time, Stark,” she gulped it down, before crushing the glass in her hand, revealing that there was no blood, no bone, no pain, the shattered remains of the glass falling from her hand.

“And see what I’ll do…”

Pete stared after her as she left, feeling the blood seep into his clothes and start to drip, and finally looked to the others. “I thought she’d be an asset. She has something like you do…that…weird power without a connection to a Change. She’s been there six months, she knows them, she has connections I don’t. And you just _chase her out of here_?” He was shaking, rage and something bitter and something hot building up in him.

He left before he could say anything, leaping to the ceiling and catching hold, crawling his way out. He heard the sound of shock from Cage, leaping forward, trying to catch him, and then the sound of disgust as he put his hand in the puddle of blood Pete knew he left.

The sounds of his name, the cry of “Spider!” turned a great deal more frightened, a great deal more concerned, but Pete didn’t stop. Even as he heard Daredevil make it to the rooftops he didn’t stop.

Pete dropped below sight, flipping off the edge of a building, felt through his sense that no one was watching, opened a portal, and dropped down to land on top of Rio’s hospital.

Pete stumbled to his knees for a moment, the portal closing above him, and opening the goober’s menu to create a text.

_Are you at the hospital?_

_I’m working, yes._ There was a beat. _Are you hurt?? Get your ass here now!!!_

Pete felt a smirk sliding across his face and crawled to the edge, looking over. There were more people this time, and Pete hesitated, before finally crawling down, finding the shadows and sticking to them. It was late, and the people that were coming were hurt, or tired, or both. He crawled in, aware that he might be dripping blood, and hovered over the desk. He recognized the woman sitting there.

Peggy looked at the black that dripped suddenly on her desk, startled.

“Sorry,” Pete said, and Peggy let out a shriek, jumping back. He tilted his head. “Sorry.”

“Oh God, it’s you, you…you’re bleeding,” she whispered. “Marissa! Marissa it’s a Spider!”

Pete watched as Marissa ran in, watched as Rio and some others followed, and gave a little bit of a grin. “I can _probably_ walk.”

“You won’t!” Marissa returned, “Get down, where are you bleeding? Get on the gurney.” A couple nurses ran forward, looking up at him with wide eyes, something like horror on their faces.

“It’s my back, I was stabbed. Can’t reach it to stitch it. Webbing, but I guess it flooded.” Pete kept his responses short and clipped, even as he dropped down to land next to the gurney. They gave a surprised sound, even as Pete looked at it, before looking to her. “Which room?”

Marissa gave a short huff of exasperation, before ushering him forward. Pete recognized he was still trailing blood and quietly apologized for it again, leading to the nurses to look at him, “You’re as bad as he was.”

“Sorry?”

Marissa laughed aloud, pushing a door open for him and leading him in. Rio was with her, and Pete found his eyes locked on her more often than not. There was another nurse with them, and Pete eyed the man carefully. He was unfamiliar, but he trusted Rio and she smiled at him carefully. Rio and Marissa worked on convincing him to strip him to his waist, something Pete was momentarily very hesitant on, but there was no way to get out of it. Rio handed over the tools for Marissa, the sound and feeling of his blood-clotted webbing being torn off and the instruction to burn it from Marissa being carried out by the man who left the room after it was put in a labeled bucket. Interesting.

He felt as they worked on cleaning and then numbing the area, the odd feeling of needle and thread tugging through flesh, and finally they were done, bandaging it up again. Pete pulled the layers back up, carefully redressing. Marissa was staring at him with eyes full of harshness and sympathy and something else.

Pete knew that he would not come back if he was seeing pity.

“I had thought you were thin,” she said softly. “I had not thought you were starving.”

“That’s partially my fault,” Pete admitted quietly. “Actually, it’s the reason I wound up getting stabbed in the first place. I was careless.” He looked at his wrists for a moment, “you’re probably busy, I’ll leave.”

“Sit,” and it was not Marissa’s voice, but Rio’s, and Pete found his gaze falling on her before he ducked his head, looking away, but does as asked. “Do you need to eat?”

Pete hesitated, and finally, quietly, “Yes. I ran dry. I wasn’t paying attention. It was…_careless_.”

“You…ran dry?” Rio asked.

Pete held up his wrists, offering them to her. “Organic webbing leads to…organic problems. I ran dry.”

Rio stared at him, stared at his wrists, and then he watched as sudden realization filled her. Rio took one step back, turned, and then ran out of the door. He heard a call for food, for something to eat, even as Marissa narrowed her eyes at him.

“Tell me,” she said softly, “what was so important that you forgot to eat?”

Pete hesitated, thinking of the knot in his stomach, and the fact that whatever emotion he was feeling…it wasn’t the warmth he was used to. Instead it was cold.

“I don’t know,” he said, and there was more of a truth in the words than he wanted to admit.

Rio came back with food, sandwiches and chips and fruits, and Pete allows himself to eat after being repeatedly assured that the people that offered them up had more or could get more. There were faces peaking into the doorway every so often, looking in at him, and while Pete could have felt annoyed, could have felt exposed… He instead found himself cold.

Pete ate until nothing was left, feeling his body working on turning the fuel into webbing. The leftover, the excess, would go to him, the almost parasitic nature of his own webbing due to its ease of production would be the thing that hurt him the most in the long run. There was plenty of food, and it would be enough for now. When he was finally finished, he stood up, thanking them, and moving towards the window.

“Be _careful_,” Rio called out before he could jump, before he could leave. “Spider…be _careful_.”

Pete looked to her, his expression still, and finally nodded.

When he finally came to the house that was and was not his, Pete would stumble into the window, strip himself of the bloody clothing and throw it in the sink with more alcohol to wash off the blood, then shower as hot as it could be to clean himself, and burn the day away.

But before that he would stand in the cold, stare at his prison, and dread tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading~ I hope everyone has a wonderful week, I love you all~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading~ Comments and kudos give me life! This shit is...well, it's very AU so if peeps are interested please let me know. Take care of yourselves and have an exciting week! I'm going to do my best to update this every Saturday BUT WE WILL SEE. Don't hold me to this, life happens XD

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What is Not Seen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23968102) by [GenderqueerWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenderqueerWriter/pseuds/GenderqueerWriter)


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